Malate Literary Folio tomo XXXI bilang 2

MALATE LITERARY FOLIO

TOMO XXXI BILANG 2 HUNYO 2015

MALATE LITERARY FOLIO Tomo XXXI Bilang 2 Karapatang-ariŠ 2015

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ng Malate Literary Folio ang opisyal na publikasyon ng sining at panitikan ng Pamantasang De La Salle - Manila, sa ilalim ng awtoridad ng Student Media Office (SMO).

Ang mga komento at mungkahi ay maaaring ipahatid sa:

Rm. 503-A, Bro. Gabriel Connon Hall, De La Salle University-Manila, 2401 Taft Avenue, Malate, Manila.

Landline no. 524-4611 local 701 E-mail address: mlf@dlsu.edu.ph Facebook: fb.com/malateliteraryfolio Twitter: @malatelitfolio

Nananatili sa indibidwal na may-akda o may-dibuho ang karapatangari ng bawat piyesang ipinalimbag dito. Hindi maaaring ipalathala muli o gamitin sa anumang paraan ang alin man sa mga nilalaman nang walang karampatang pahintulot ng may-akda o may-dibuho Ang tomong ito ay hindi ipinagbibili.

Ang pabalat ay likha nina Pamela Justine Lite at Steven Encarnacion.

INTRODUKSYON

Marahil sa edad nating mga mag-aaral ay nagsisimula pa lamang

tayong maglaan ng oras at katahimikan upang kilalanin ang ating sarili. Ilang taon din tayong magtatanong tungkol sa estado ng kontekstong kinalakihan natin. Bakit ganito ang lipunan? Ang pamilya? Ang pagkakaibigan? Ang pag-ibig? Ang pulitika? Ang batas? Ang kasaysayan? Ang kultura? Ang sining? Ang panitikan?

Ang wika? Ang kapaligiran? Ang mundo? Ang sansinukob?

Maaaring may sagot. Maaaring kumatha ng sagot.

Maaaring kalimutan ang tanong, hayaang lumutang sa isip ang tanong, tanong ang sagot sa tanong. Ano’t ano man, ang bawat sitwasyon ay nangangailangan—nagdedemanda—ng pagpapasiya, kahit pansamantala.

Di tulad ng trumpo, ang mundo ay hindi titigil sa pag-ikot (at kung mangyari man ay hindi natin maaabutan itong mangyari).

Di tulad ng kotse, ang buhay ay walang kambyo para basta na lamang umatras. Ang buhay ay laging pasulong. Tulad ng oras.

Ang katawan ay tumutugon sa kapaligiran—sa bawat pagsimula, pagbago, at pagtigil—sa katiningan. Ang isip ay nagsusumikap makawala sa limitasyon ng katawan, nagsusumikap umurong sa pagsulong, lumipad sa pagtalon. Ang laro, ang sayaw, ang pagkasundo’t pagsalungat ng isip at katawan ang takda ng pagpapasiya.

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Nais galugarin ng Malate Literary Folio sa isyung ito ang pagtauli sa panahon, sa lipunan, at sa paligid sa pag-asang ang pagsuri ng mga likhang inilimbag ay makapagpayaman sa sariling pagkakakilanlan ng mambabasa, makapag-ungkat ng mga inilibing na tanong, at maitulak pasulong ang paghanap sa mga kasagutan.

CHRISTEL KIMBERLY T. CANTILLAS Punong Patnugot

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NILALAMAN Introduksyon

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Prosa

Bugaw

Vyanka Xandra Velasquez

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The Lover of Ma-Biru Manuel Villa III

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Bala-dila

Vyanka Xandra Velasquez

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non-titled 52 Manuel Villa III

Re-enchantment of a Pervert Katrina Alyssa Tankeh

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Barbie Janssen Dale Cunanan

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Lost in Taxi

Manuel Villa III

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Sining

March to the Current 1 Pamela Justine Lite

Kabanata VII, Maria Clara Kris Bernardine Samonte

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Greetings, from Alien Nation Hannah Grace Villafuerte

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Marae

Czyrone Angelo Galang

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Hindi Lang Sa Mata

Mariel Christine Cuartero

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Parental Guidance Pamela Justine Lite

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Brine Diana Rose ParreĂąo

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VERMIN!!! 81 Cheliza Angela Acance

Tula

Little things keep happening 14 Mark Anthony Cayanan

Ang Ritwal Louie Jon Sanchez

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Salitang Kalye Christel Kimberly Cantillas

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Lumbay Louie Jon Sanchez

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Hignaw 82 Jericho Miguel Aguado

Retrato

Tawid Alecsandra Denise Ongcal

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On Devotees Steven Encarnacion

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Talaro 55 Miguel Antonio Luistro

Untitled

Miguel Antonio Luistro

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Errata

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Pasasalamat

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PATNUGUTAN Christel Kimberly Cantillas Punong Patnugot Joseph Malabanan Tagapamahalang Patnugot Pamela Justine Lite Patnugot ng Sining Francisco Gabriel NuĂąez Patnugot ng Retrato Jericho Miguel Aguado Patnugot ng Tula Julian Russel Noche Tagapamahala ng Marketing at mga Magaganap

MGA SENYOR NA PATNUGOT Miguel Antonio Luistro Francis Ray Quintana Vyanka Xandra Velasquez

TAGAPAYO Mr. Johann Vladimir Espiritu

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MGA KASAPI Cheliza Angela Acance Meryl Ann Batara Mariel Christine Cuartero Janssen Dale Cunanan Lavilla Dauag Maria Karina Izabel Dayrit Dianne De Guzman Pedro Rodrigo Dimaano Luke Perry Embate Steven Encarnacion Mashan Bernice Espiritu Charlene Ferrer Czyrone Angelo Galang

Juan Carlo Ona Alecsandra Denise Ongcal Diana Rose ParreĂąo Patricia Rojas Gilbert Roldan, Jr. Kris Bernadine Samonte Bernadette Patricia Santua Adriel Paul Tangoan Katrina Alyssa Tankeh Janelle Mae Usal John Vianney Ventura Hannah Grace Villafuerte

STUDENT MEDIA OFFICE Anna Loraine Balita-Centeno Director Joanna Paula Queddeng Coordinator Ma. Manuela Agdeppa Secretary vii

Malate Literary Folio

PAMELA JUSTINE LITE

March to the Current pen on illustration board

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 2

VYANKA XANDRA VELASQUEZ

Bugaw

May insektong umaaligid sa tainga ni Layla. Naglalakad ang dalaga

suot-suot ang magaan na damit na gawa sa ilaw ng mga tala na hinabi sa tela. Ang kaniyang nakikita ay puro liwanag at ang kagandahan ng mundo sa labas ng kanilang lupain sa kabila ng mga pawid na bahay.

Sa ilalim ng gabi, sa paligid ng mga talang gawang tao, pakiramdam ng dalaga na ang lahat ng bagay sa labas ng kanilang bakod ay kaya niyang makuha. Ngunit hindi lang ang mga tala at ang mga tao ang umaaligid sa kaniya. May insekto ring sumusunod sa kaniyang tabi habang siya’y pumaparada, nasa tabi ng kaniyang tainga, walang sawang bumubulong, humahagikgik.

Nairita si Layla at tinawag ang kaniyang nanay. “Na”, tawag niya, “may pesteng umaaligid sa akin.”

“Ganoon talaga kapag nasa labas,” sagot naman ng kaniyang nanay.

Biglang namatay ang mga ilaw. Huminto sa paglalakad ang dalaga. Hindi naging sapat ang liwanag ng tala para makakita si Layla.

Lalong lumapit ang insekto sa kaniyang tainga. Hindi niya maintindihan ang mga sinasabi nito ngunit pakiramdam niya ay sinusundot na ang

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tainga niya. Umiling siya, ninais na layuan na siya ng peste. Napakamot sa tainga, nandoon pa rin ang ingay. Bumukas ang ilaw na ang daliri ay nasa tainga pa niya. Agad-agad niyang tinanggal ito at ngumiti at nagpatuloy sa paglalakad. Nawala ang ingay ng peste.

Ang tradisyon ng pagpaparada ng kanilang kababaihan, wika ng kaniyang nanay, ay para daw ipakita ang kanilang kagandahan—ang kanilang mamahaling damit na pinasadya, mga alahas na may daang taon nang nagkikislapan, ang kanilang tindig bilang nagmamay-ari sa buong lungsod.

Nang maalala ito ni Layla, napansin niya ang kaliitan ng mundong ginagalawan. Tama ang kaniyang nanay na mas malaki pa siya sa mga kubo ng mga taong nakatira sa kanilang paligid, ngunit hindi inakala ni Layla na kailangan niyang tumingin pa paibaba para lamang makita ang mga tao at ang kanilang silong na nababalot ng alikabok.

Nagiging pare-pareho na ang tingin ni Layla sa kaniyang paligid. Hindi na niya mawari kung siya ba’y gumagalaw at umuusad sa kaniyang paglalakad. Kanina pa siya napapalibutan ng mga kubong gawa sa tagpi-tagping yero’t kahoy at napakahabang pila ng mga taong pinagmamasdan siya. Nakaramdam na ng sakit sa paa ang dalaga. Nagiging mabato na ang kalye. Mas nahirapan ang dalagang maglakad, dumudulas na ang bakya sa kaniyang talampakan kada apak sa maumbok na daan.

Nang malagpasan na ng parada ang bako-bakong kalye, nanibago ang dalaga. Naiba ang itsura ng mundong ginagalawan. Ang mga bahay ay gawa na rin sa bato, tulad ng kanilang bahay. Magkakalayo ang mga ito, malalaki rin tulad ng sa kanilang lupain, ang pinagkaiba lang ay ang mga bakod ng mga ito ay malapit rin sa kanilang tahanan.

Ang mga naninirahan sa bahay ay kita mula sa labas. Hindi tulad ng bakod ng lupain ni Layla.

Napansin niya na ang liwanag sa kaniyang paligid ay napawi dahil sa maraming ilaw na nakatirik sa mumunting tore sa daanan.

Napansin rin ni Layla na ang kalye ay nagsasanga-sanga, patungo kung saan-saan, hindi niya alam kung saan ang kahihinatnan. Hindi tulad ng sa hilera ng mga pawid na bahay.

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Muling napansin ni Layla ang mga bahay. Ang iba’y matataas rin. May mga gawa sa salamin na kinukuwadro ng mga bakal. Lahat maaaliwalas.

Napangiti ang dalaga.

Sa isang bahay, bahagyang salamin, bahagyang bato, ay isang binatang nakadungaw sa beranda. Pinagmamasdan siya, may ngiti sa mukha nito na nagdala rin ng ngiti sa mukha ni Layla. Itinaas ng lalaki ang kaniyang kamay at dahan-dahang kumaway sa kaniya. Kumaway rin siya. Binagalan niya ang lakad, nakatingin sa lalaki, hanggang sa nilingon na niya ang lalaki, hanggang sa hindi na ito abot ng kaniyang paningin at humarap na ang dalaga sa iba pang kabahayan.

Nang gabing iyon, hindi na nawala sa isip ni Layla ang lalaki.

Matapos niyang hubarin ang kaniyang damit, matapos niyang tanggalin ang kaniyang kolorete, habang pinaliliguan ang kaniyang katawan, ang ngiti ng binata ay paulit-ulit na lumalabas sa kaniyang isipan. Hindi nagtagal ay naukit na sa utak ang ngiti nito kahit hindi maalala ng kaniyang isip kung ano ang itsura ng lalaki. Ngunit ang ngiti nito, at ang sa tingin ni Layla na angking kabaitan—sapagkat siya lamang ang kumaway at ngumiti sa kaniya—ang naaalala ng dalaga.

Sa kaniyang pag-iisip, ang malawak na ngiti ng binata’y binigyan na rin ni Layla ng mga labing malalambot. Hanggang ang mga ito’y inilagay niya sa isang maliit at pahabang mukha, sinamahan ng matangos na ilong at ng mga bilog na kayumangging mata. Binigyan niya ang mukha ng katawan na malaki ang mga bisig. Habang ang balat nito ay kulay puti na pilit binabarnisan ng mainit na lungsod. Sa oras na iyon, ibinigay na ni Layla ang kaniyang mga nalalabing paghinga sa lalaking kaniyang iniisip.

Umahon sa paliguan si Layla. Tiningnan niya ang sarili sa salamin. Nakita niyang hindi nawala ang kinang sa kaniyang katawan, ang kinang na bigay ng pagpaparada sa kaniya, pumapalibot sa kaniyang kulay kahoy na balat.

Habang pinagmamasdan ang kaniyang kinang, nakita ni Layla na mayroon na namang pesteng umaaligid sa kaniya, lumalapit sa kaniyang tainga. Bumulong ito. Hindi niya naintindihan. Binugaw niya ang peste.

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Bugaw

Muli niyang tiningnan ang sarili, sinuklay ang kaniyang maalong buhok, at pinagmasdan ang kaniyang malaking matang kasing kulay ng uling. Ngumiti siya, nakita ang kaniyang maputing ngipin.

Nagbihis si Layla, nahiga sa kaniyang kama, natulog nang may ngiti, at sa kaniyang panaginip ay ang lalaking kumaway sa kaniya.

Kinabukasan, nakatitig si Layla sa bakuran mula sa kaniyang balkonahe.

Nakikita niyang kumakaway ang mga sanga ng bogambilya, ang matitingkad na rosas na bulaklak nito ay hinahalina siyang lumapit sa kanila, pinahihintulutan siyang lumabas. Inisip niya kung kaya ng kaniyang paa na puntahan ang lalaki. Kung kaya ba niyang alalahanin kung saan ang bahay nito. Kung paano niya malalaman ang pangalan, kung paano siya makikilala nito bilang Layla at hindi lamang bilang babaeng pumaparada sa kanilang lungsod. Hindi na namalayan ng dalaga na siya ay lumabas na ng kaniyang kuwarto, ng kaniyang bahay, at nasa harap na siya ng mga bogambilyang namumulaklak.

Huminga si Layla, nilagpasan niya ang bantay ng tarangkahan, sinabing babalik siya, huwag mag-alala. Hinayaan ni Layla na dalhin siya ng kaniyang kulay-kahoy na paa sa kung saan niya gusto — sa harap ng lalaki.

Mababa pa ang araw, malamig pa ang hangin. Nasa hilera na ng kubo si Layla. Ang mga bata ay wala pang mga marka ang mga pisngi. Dinaan silang lahat ni Layla. Tinahak ang daan ng kaniyang pagparada. Naglakad hanggang naging mabato na ang kalye at ang araw ay nakatutok na sa kaniyang anit. Nawalan na ng mga kubo, ang pumalit ay ang mga damo. Maya-maya pa ay nagkaroon na ng mga bahay na magagara. Tumawa sa galak si Layla. “Sa wakas!” Napabilis ang kaniyang lakad.

Sa sikat ng araw, hindi niya mahanap kung saang bahay naroon ang lalaki. Naaalala lamang niya ang salamin at ang beranda, ngunit halos lahat ng bahay sa kalye ay ganoon pala ang harapan.

Umikot nang umikot si Layla. Sa lahat ng direksyon ay iisa lang ang bahay na kaniyang nakikita. Lumakad siya, tumingin, lumingon sa paligid at ganoon pa rin ang kaniyang nakita. Ang mundo na ang gumagalaw—ang kalye, ang sahig, ang mga bahay—at si Layla na lang

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ang nanatili sa kaniyang puwesto.

Narito lamang iyon. Ano nga bang itsura. Nasaan na siya.

Iyon ang mga katagang binibigkas ni Layla. Hindi na niya malaman kung nasaan ang itaas o ibaba, ang kaliwa at kanan, kung saan siya nanggaling.

May tumapik sa likod ni Layla.

“Binibini, may maitutulong ba ako sa iyo?”

At iyon, sa kaniyang pagtingin sa pinagmulan ng boses ay isang lalaki. Ang puting balat ay pinapapula ng nakakapasong araw, ang kulot na buhok ay bumibilog-bilog sa tuktok ng ulo nito, ang mga pisngi’y may bakas na ng patubong balbas. May maliit na ngiti sa kaniyang mukha.

“Ikaw!” unang nasambit ni Layla, “Ikaw ang kumaway sa akin kagabi.”

“Kumaway?”

“Oo! Ako ay iyong nasa parada. Kagabi?” sabi ni Layla nang may ngiti.

“A, ikaw pala iyon. Bakit ka muling naparito? At bakit may luha sa iyong pisngi? May nawala ba sa iyo kagabi?”

Hindi namalayan ni Layla na siya’y lumuha. Pinunasan niya ang kaniyang pisngi.

“Pasensya na. Akala ko ay nawawala na ako. May hinanap kasi ako at akala ko’y hindi ko na makikita pa.” Ngumiti si Layla, ipinapakita ang kaniyang mapuputing ngipin habang nakatingin sa mata ng lalaki, mas maitim ito sa kaniyang inakala.

“Maaari kitang tulungan. Ano ba iyong nawawala?” Tanong ng binata.

“Nahanap ko na.”

“Nasa iyo na?”

“Wala pa.”

Napakulot ng noo ang binata.

“Ikaw,” ngumiti si Layla. “Ikaw ang hinahanap ko.”

Natawa ang binate nang panandalian. Malim ang halakhak.

Ang mga mata nito’y pumikit, at napansin ni Layla na kumukulubot ang mga ito, ngunit nawala din kasabay ng pagtigil ng tawa.

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Bugaw

“Halika na, halika na, ihahatid na kita,” sabi ng binata.

“Ako nga pala si Layla.”

“Maverick,” sagot naman ng binata, “Halika na. Taga saan ka ba?”

“Dako paroon,” tinuro ni Layla ang pinanggalingan. “Lagpas pa sa mga bahay na pawid, doon kung nasaan ang walang hanggang pader.”

Tumawa ang binata.

“Halika na.”

Sumunod si Layla patungo sa tarangkahan ng tahanan ni Maverick, sumunod patungo sa paradahan ng binata, sa kotse nito.

Binuksan ni Maverick ang isang pintuan ng kotse.

“Sakay na. Ihahatid na kita sa inyong bahay. Kailangan mo nga lang ituro ang daan.”

“Salamat.” Pumasok ang dalaga sa sasakyan ng binata.

Tinuro ni Layla ang daan patungo sa bahay niya. Napansin niyang madaldal si Maverick — kinuwento ang kaniyang buhay sa isang bundok na kita ang buong lungsod, ang mga tao daw doon ay parating may ginagawa, ang hangin ay usok at nasa lungsod si Maverick para makahinga. Napansin ni Layla na palangiti si Maverick at isang kamay lamang ang ginagamit sa pagmamaneho. Kumalabog lalo ang puso ni Layla na kahit si Maverick ay narinig ito at inakalang may nasagasaan siya o may kalampag na ang kaniyang kotse. Hindi masabi ni Layla na iyon lamang ang puso niyang lumulundag sa kakisigan ng binatang katabi. Para kay Layla, masyado na niyang nasabi ang kaniyang kagustuhan kay Maverick.

Sa mga katagang “dito na lang ako,” at “bibisitahin mo ako?” naghiwalay ang dalawa. Kumaway muli si Maverick mula sa bintana ng kaniyang sasakyan at umalis sa bakod nina Layla.

Sa sobrang lakas ng kalabog ng puso ni Layla ay sinalubong siya ng kaniyang nanay sa pag-aakalang may masamang nangyayari sa labas ng kanilang bahay.

“Pasensya na po, nanay. May nakapagpatibok lang po ng puso ko,” paumanhin ni Layla.

Napansin ng kaniyang nanay na kakaibang liwanag na ang

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taglay ng kaniyang anak, hindi lamang ang pangkaraniwang liwanag na bigay ng parada.

Simula noon ay naging malapit ang dalaga’t binata. Dumating si Maverick na may dalang bulaklak na sobrang laki na naitatago na nito ang katawan ng binata. Calla lily ang binigay ng binata sa dalaga noong unang beses itong dumalaw at umapak sa loob ng bahay ni Layla.

Pinapasok ni Layla si Maverick.

“Sino ang binatang iyan?” tanong naman ng nanay ni Layla.

“Na, siya po si Maverick,” sagot ni Layla.

At nang makita ng kaniyang nanay ang ngiti ng binata at ang mga calla lily, tumingin siya sa lalaki sa kaniyang harap—ang itim kulot na buhok nito, ang polo nitong puti, ang pantalon nito, at ang sapatos nitong patulis—alam na niya kung ano ang pakay ng binata.

“Ingatan mo ang aking anak.”

Ngumiti ang binata, lumuhod sa harap ng nanay ni Layla, at hinalikan ang kamay nito.

“Opo.”

Tumingin ang nanay sa kaniyang anak—ang liwanag sa paligid ay mas malakas kaysa noong ito’y pumarada—at nakita niya kung ano ang nagustuhan nito kay Maverick. Ngumiti ang nanay, tumalikod, pumunta sa kaniyang kuwarto at huminga nang malalim. Ang noo niya’y kumunot.

Una’y araw-araw si Maverick sa bahay nina Layla. Palaging may dalang calla lily. Ilang linggo pa ang nakalipas ay hindi lang sa tanggapan ng kanilang tahanan pinapasok ni Layla si Maverick, pati na rin sa kaniyang kuwarto.

“Naiinip ako.”

Napatingin si Layla kay Maverick, napatigil sa pag-aayos ng mga calla lily na dala ni Maverick para sa araw na iyon.

“Kung gayon, anong nais mong gawin?” tanong ng dalaga.

Sa silid ng dalaga, tumayo si Maverick mula sa upuan. Biglang nanlaki ang binata sa paningin ni Layla. Tumayo rin si Layla at napansin niyang maliit lang siya kumpara sa tao na nasa harap niya. Ngumiti

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Bugaw

si Maverick, inanyayahan ang sariling umupo sa papag ni Layla.

Tiningnan ng dalaga ang payat na kamay ni Maverick na nakapatong sa kama. Lumapit si Layla. Umupo siya sa tabi ni Maverick. Nilapit ni Maverick ang kaniyang mukha sa kayumangging balikat ng dalaga.

Dumapo ang bibig sa balat. Tumingin si Maverick kay Layla. Tumingin pabalik si Layla kay Maverick. Ngumiti si Maverick, ang kamay niya’y gumapang sa kamay ni Layla, at umakyat patungo sa balikat ng dalaga, nagdikit ang bibig ng dalawa, at ang kamay ni Maverick ay bumababa sa dibdib ni Layla, at bumaba pa nang bumaba.

Napatingin ang dalaga sa mga dalang calla lily ni Maverick, nakita niyang may bubuyog na umaaligid, natakot siyang ito’y lumapit sa kaniya.

“Huwag kang mangamba,” sabi ni Maverick.

Hindi nawawala ang ngiti sa mukha nito habang hinahatak siyang dahan-dahan pahiga sa kaniyang kama. Pinapadulas ni Maverick ang bigkis ng pangtaas ni Layla. Pinababa ito sa kaniyang balikat, hinila ang kamay palabas dito. Nakita niyang ang mamula-mulang balat ni Maverick ay nagmumukhang puti katabi ng kaniyang balat.

Napalapit ang bubuyog sa tainga ni Layla. Nahuli niya ang ilang salita sa bulong nito.

Nagising si Layla dahil sa sikat ng araw sa kaniyang mukha. Una niyang tiningnan ang calla lily na dala ni Maverick noong siya’y huling pumunta—nangingitim at kumukulubot. May pagkayamot na gumapang sa kaniyang ugat. Napakamot siya nang maalalang hindi pa bumabalik ang binata matapos ng ilang linggo.

Bumaba siya at tumuloy sa hapag-kainan, ang kaniyang nanay ay nakaupo sa kabisera’t nagbabasa. Hindi halos napansin ng nanay ang kaniyang anak. Kung hindi pa nagsalita si Layla ay hindi ito makikita. Napansin niya na ang liwanag na dating pumapalibot sa dalaga’y nawala.

“Ikaw ba’y may dinadamdam, anak?”

Tiningnan ni Layla ang pagkaing nakahain sa kaniyang harapan. Nakaranas siya ng pagkahilo. May nais umakyat sa kaniyang lalamunan. Inabot ni Layla ang baso, nilapit ito sa kaniyang labi, at

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linunok ang laman nito. Pinunasan niya ang kaniyang labi.

“Na, ganoon po ba talaga ang mga lalaki?” tanong ni Layla.

“Ano ang iyong nais sabihin?” Ibinaba ng nanay ang binabasa.

“Si Maverick po, hindi na po siya dumadalaw.”

“Hindi naman lahat ng lalaki ay magkakatulad.”

“Ngunit ang aking ama, at ngayon, si Maverick—”

“Ang ama mo’y may pakpak. Pinili niyang lumipad, kasama ng mga ibon, patungo sa iba’t ibang lugar. Mamamahinga sandali sa lupa, at lilipad muli. Hindi ko siya nakayang pigilan sa kaniyang natural na gawain. Hindi natin ito kayang gawin sa mga mahal natin. Gusto niya ang kaniyang kalayaan, ang kalangitan, ang makita ang mundo.

Gusto lamang niyang lumipad. Alam ko iyon, bago ko pa ibigay ang aking sarili sa kaniya. Hindi ko kailanman ninais na pigilan siya. At ikaw, ikaw ang alaala niya sa akin.”

“Ganoon na lang ba iyon kadali sa aking ama? Kung ang aking ama’y nakaya iyong gawin sa iyo at sa akin, sa atin—”

Napatayo si Layla. Ang iniimpit na suka ay ninais nang lumabas. Tumungo si Layla sa lababo, binuka ang bibig, ang lumabas ay tubig at sumunod ay hangin.

Itinaas ni Layla ang kaniyang mukha. Tumingin siya sa kaniyang nanay. Ang kaniyang nanay ay nakatingin sa kaniya—ang mapupulang labi nito’y nakatikom, manipis.

“Kaya ka ba nayayamot?”

“Hindi ko po alam ang inyong sinasabi,” tumalikod si Layla at nagsimulang bumalik sa kaniyang kuwarto.

“Alam mo ang aking sinasabi. At iyon ay gusto mong sabihin kay Maverick ngunit wala siya ngayon, o noong isang araw, o isang linggo, o noong pang isang isang linggo.”

“Inyo naman po palang alam, bakit niyo pa po ako tinatanong?” Sinara ni Layla ang pinto, naging mag-isa sa kaniyang silid. Ngunit siya’y mayroong naririnig na bulong sa kaniyang tainga.

Tiningnan niya ang lantang calla lily na inaaligid-aligiran pa rin ng bubuyog. Kinuha niya ang bulaklak at itinapon ito sa labas ng kaniyang bintana ngunit nanatili pa rin ang bubuyog.

Tumalon ang dalaga patungo sa kaniyang kama, hinipo niya

10

Bugaw

ang kaniyang tiyan. Nakaramdam siya ng tibok. Kumunot ang noo ng dalaga. Nanginig ang kaniyang mga labi. Napakurot siya sa kaniyang tiyan. Lumakas ang bulong ng bubuyog sa kaniyang tainga.

…Iniwan ka na niya.

“Bakit, ano ang aking nagawa?” tanong ni Layla.

…Kulay lupa ... Mayaman lang... Hindi kagandahan…

“Pero nagustuhan naman niya ako, hindi ba? Binigyan niya ako ng bulaklak. Lumabas kami, naglakad-lakad. Ginawa ko ang lahat ng gusto niya.”

…Ano nga ba ang gusto niya?

Nagdilim ang paningin ni Layla. Unti-unting nilamon ng mga anino ang kaniyang nakikita.

Tumayo siya mula sa kaniyang kinahihigaan. Nawala ang sahig. Sumunod ang mga gamit sa kaniyang kuwarto. Naglakad si Layla sa hangin at dilim. Sinubukan niyang hanapin ang tagasindi ng ilaw. Hindi niya ito makapa. Ang pader na kinakapitan ni Layla ay lumambot hanggang sa naglaho. Dahan-dahan ang kaniyang kamay ay kinakain ng kadiliman parang isang bulang nanglalamon. Nagsimula sa kamay hanggang kinain ang braso, hanggang sa mapasok ang ulo ni Layla.

Wala nang narinig si Layla.

Sumigaw siya, sumigaw siya para sa kaniyang nanay. Paulitulit. Tinawag niya ang pangalan ni Maverick. Tumakbo siya sa loob ng bula. Tumakbo nang tumakbo. Humiyaw siya, isang sigaw na mula sa kaniyang kaloob-looban, ang kaniyang pinakamalakas, ngunit walang lumabas na tunog.

Hiyaw at galaw, iyon na lamang ang nagawa ni Layla sa kadiliman. Hanggang sa nakakita siya ng isang maliit na liwanag sa kadiliman. Mabilis niya itong nilapitan. Palapit nang palapit, lumalaki ang sinag ng liwanag. Pumasok ang bula at si Layla sa liwanag. Binulag siya nito.

Sa pagsabog ng ilaw, ang unang narinig ni Layla ay ang mga bubuyog. Ang mabibilis na pagpagaspas ng mga pakpak nito malapit sa kaniyang tainga. Paulit-ulit, walang humpay, ayaw siyang tantanan.

Matapos ay nakita ni Layla ang sarili sa simula ng lahat. Nakita

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 2

niya ang kaniyang pagparada. Nakita niya ang sarili na nakabalot sa liwanag. Katabi niya ang sarili. Ang mga insekto’y lumalapit sa kaniya, sa kaniyang ilaw. Pinagpipiyestahan siya—ang kaniyang itsura, ang kaniyang kinang. Narinig niya ang mga sinasabi ng mga peste.

“Kulay lupa…”

“Mayaman lang. . .”

“Hindi kagandahan…”

Nilingon niya ang kaniyang paligid, at siya’y nasa kaniyang kama, limos sa taklob, sila ni Maverick na nasa kaniyang mga braso, sinusundot ang kaniyang kaluluwa papalayo sa kaniyang sarili.

Lumingon siya at nakita niya ang calla lily na lumulutang-lutang, lanta, at muli, siya’y nasa kadiliman. Ang naririnig lamang ay ang mga bulong.

Hindi namalayan ni Layla na nanumbalik na ang mga pader at sahig ng kaniyang silid. Namulat siya nang may sakit sa kaniyang puson.

Naramdaman niyang ang sakit ay umaagos. Hinipo niya ang kaniyang tiyan. Hindi na niya maramdaman ang pagtibok. Bumangon siya, tiningnan ang katawan. Ang kaniyang mga hita’y may dugo.

Napangiti siya. “Hindi siya matutulad sa akin,” ang katagang pumasok sa kaniyang isipan.

“Bakit pa ako nag-alala,” natawa siya sa kaniyang sarili.

“Walang dapat ipag-alala.”

“Hindi naman pala kailangan si Maverick.”

“Walang dapat ipag-alala.”

Dumating ang kaniyang nanay. Tiningnan ito ni Layla. Ang mukha’y kumulubot nang parang ilang dekada na ang lumipas. Sa kabila nito, ipinakita ni Layla ang kaniyang kamay na galing sa hita.

Pula. Ngumiti si Layla sa kaniyang nanay.

“Wala nang dapat ipag-alala, Na.”

12

Malate Literary Folio

KRIS BERNADINE SAMONTE

Kabanata VII, Maria Clara graphite on paper

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 2

MARK ANTHONY CAYANAN

Little things keep happening Listen, I say, when the night interrupts us from each other, fireworks swimming like sperm through this blue-black wash, each flaring tail its own intention: neon ribbons and musters of peacocks, plumage swishing into flame, sprigs of lavender and forsythia, exploding chandeliers, there and there the bystanders’ clamor an operatic prompt; fighter planes kamikaze into the ether, multiple orgasms, or numinous bodies open-mouth into multiple orgasms; I lean on the banister away from you and a gorgon shakes loose her hair, a god streaks forth with his many admonitions, relentless as a child’s many questions, and troubles rocket down on us; intimations of a late summer sky, frantic supernova, this night shimmies its macular skin over and over and you in your impatience tell me something I wouldn’t want overheard and now the deep evening makes for me a spectacle of maybe, whose maybe, lets rush upward another no or even so: who must forfeit the future, who’s told to enjoy the show because every bright spark is ridiculous and all this, all this darts and synchs out into elegy and what the ungrateful lake catches it does not give back and, and, and, and we did not have to know each other but we must from now on say almost so.

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Malate Literary Folio

HANNAH GRACE VILLAFUERTE

Greetings, from Alien Nation digital collage

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 2

MANUEL VILLA III

The Lover of Ma-Biru

0-4 My finger traced invisible lines on her skin. “What happened to your fire?” I asked.

“You don’t need me to tell you how fire fades.”

“Then afterwards?”

“I was sent away from the Land of the Fire-Blessed.”

“Where to?”

“Where, indeed. It was as black and cold as space itself.”

“How did you escape? And do you ever think of going back home?”

“Escape is easy, my love. But coming back is always the hardest. This little fantasy is my only reprieve. I have no place to return to. No place except with you.”

“If you had a chance to rekindle your fire, would you take it?”

She brought her hand down the length of my torso. Her eyes gleamed with the tragic desperation of twin supernovae, her smile, like the blade of a waning moon. “I already have.”

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Malate Literary Folio

1-1 In the year 16 of the (14 × 109)th era of the 143rd Incarnation of the Cosmos, a dark energy wave carrying the genomes of 10 sapienssapiens and an assortment of 50 other members of the homo genus began its maiden voyage across the universe. The wave, codenamed “Sabado 16,” and aimed from the Capital of the Virgo Supercluster at 0° latitude and 137.37° longitude, traveled for half a quantum day before it was intercepted by Magnadisc’s parabolic receptors.

Likewise known as the Capital of the Hydra-Centaurus Supercluster, Magnadisc was a colossal waveport whose breadth equalled that of the Sol System. After the waveport had printed the genomes into corporeal form, I stepped out of my incubation pod, wet and naked, into a gigantic port, feeling like barely an hour had passed since our departure from Virgo. Fellow sapiens-sapiens acknowledged my presence and waved. I shyly nodded back. The silvery, bowl-shaped port, littered with thousands of incubation pods, was my first glimpse of a sector of space-time not limited to the Milky Way. Under the glare of the incalculable floodlights, I peered further into space, attempting to pinpoint home—a decidedly futile venture, for a single star, bigger and brighter than the rest, drowned out all other magnitudes with its impressive burning blue. That star, or rather, a tiny planetoid orbiting that very star, was the reason the passengers of the Sabado 16 were on this voyage.

As we waited for our luggage’s molecular data to arrive, the port attendants, members of a different homo genus and therefore still humanoid, gifted us with new clothing. I knew not the local terminology for such apparel but they reminded me of traditional balukas back home, only decorated in the signature style of this region: weaved with threads of light to form patterns that varied in hue and luminosity depending on the gazer’s proximity.

Once everyone’s belongings had been downloaded and accounted for, we were then led to a bird that zoomed us out of the port’s glittering enclosure and into an even more spacious area that looked to be as boundless as the plains of a verdant planet. Over

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 2

moors, lakes, and towns, and under an artificial daytime we flew, before reaching an upright vessel, tall as any tower, poised like an ancient power line on a patch of dirt in a wide, grassy plain. Contrary to what I was expecting, the vessel’s structure was sleek and spindly. This vessel would be the one to take us all the way to The Lover of Ma-Biru, the rocky globe orbiting the eponymous blue supergiant star Ma-Biru.

The Lover and its host star were a lightyear away from Magnadisc in classical mechanics, but this gigantic quantum vessel perched lithely in front of us would need a day at most to travel anywhere within that distance.

The attendants escorted us into the vessel. I followed the group, lugging my belongings with me. A fellow sapiens-sapiens offered to help. I politely declined, avoiding eye contact.

There was a single, central common dormitory near the middle section, where the economy class usually opted to rest. A few capsules dotted corridors throughout the length of the vessel, for those who needed a bit of privacy. I wasn’t one to interact with other genera, much less with strangers of my own subspecies, so I decided to rent a capsule, replete with necessities one would find in any other modern accommodation. Laid out on the bed was a bulky space suit, with printed instructions on its usage. This suit would serve as my only protection on the surface of The Lover.

I booted the capsule’s console and skimmed for information on the The Lover and its inhabitants but the images and descriptions only echoed what I’d studied several nights previous. Research alone wasn’t always adequate, most particularly when looking up on civilizations not from your own supercluster. The closest one could get to being there in person was through the use of VR, but visual and auditory cues in a simulated environment completely ruined the point of a sabbatical.

Yes, a sabbatical. That was what brought me here, though for not the same reasons as everyone else. Excitement was the least of my concerns, inevitable it may be. I have embarked on this journey to one of the most dangerous habitable places in the universe for one thing: peace of mind.

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The Lover of Ma-Biru

My name and profession are of little consequence, and perhaps I may betray my inexperience too steeply when I liken myself to a virgin seafarer entranced into my own termination by oceanic horrors unimaginable. It is difficult not to mince words in this manner when I say that I have been smitten, verily, by angelfire.

I brought down the console’s lid and thought deeply till I slept.

0-1 Her hand moved in and out of my vision, as if fanning a flame. It was the only clear image I could make out in this nebular mass of blue.

“Please stay awake.” Her voice addressed me, slipping in from the chaos of the drums and horns and laughter. “Do not lie on your back; you might choke.” There was a brief feeling of floating then a gradual, cushioned landing. A shuffling of feet on grass and dirt merged with the surrounding din. She spoke imperatively to a group of indiscernible shapes: “You over there, go search for a basin. I told you fools: seven drops was far too much.”

A dull pain throbbed across my entire left arm up to the shoulder. It hurt every time I tried to move. “Why am I here?” I’d thrown rhetoric out to the wind in my half-sane state, only before sensing a body lower itself onto the ground in front of me. I instantly regretted it and prayed to the cosmos no one had heard me—not her, above all. I thought of the various ways she could have told me off or patronized me as any manah of her rank would—but she didn’t.

Smoke from burning herbs, which I doubted emanated from the bonfire, singed my nosehairs. A hand momentarily brushed away hair from my face to rest on my forehead. It was warm—warmer than the nearby bonfire, which petered out as the celebration stretched on, and much warmer than the still-fresh vomit on my balukas I hadn’t been in any capacity to disrobe. “Your temperature has risen.

I apologize,” her voice sounded out. At that moment, it was the only real thing my mind could have latched on to.

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 2

I roused my entire being into sobriety in an effort to speak up. “Don’t trouble yourself, manah. I can take care—” She shushed me. “I was aware of what you were getting into.

Still, I let it happen. You are my responsibility, understand?”

“Yes, manah.”

My head was spinning, and everything appeared in flashes.

I squinted for clarity: The world was perpendicular and her face was the point of origin. Her Vantablack hair flowed nape-ward into a clip, from which it burst forth in wild curls, akin to a fire breather’s plume.

Her eyes were dense and supermassive, and not even light escaped her gaze. Noticing that I’d partially restored my vision, she brought her hand up, revealing a micro-conflagration caught in between her fore and middle fingers.

“Do you mind?” she asked, as wisps of smoke wrapped about her.

“I didn’t even notice, manah.”

She studied me with a raised brow then took a slow, final drag and threw it backwards into the bonfire. “You’re a bad liar,” she said, her formality beginning to slacken, a change I was certainly not used to. She exhaled up and away from my face, with a simultaneous yawn that betrayed her fatigue. “And don’t call me that, at least for tonight.

It’s the new millennium. We’re off duty. You have no obligation to me.” Something about that didn’t feel quite sincere.

“Then you have no obligation to me as well, manah. I’ll be okay.”

She looked at me, half-agape, like no one had ever the nerve to tell her what she could and couldn’t do. She looked like she was about to reply when a voice returned and momentarily ruptured my observable universe. The blurry image of a colleague handed her a basin, which she plopped onto the grass between us.

“Thank you. I can handle this; you may return to the celebration,” she told the blur, briefly reconstructing her rigid demeanor. “And try not to trick any more neophytes. I’m watching you.” The blur bowed in respect and headed back to throng with a larger blur on the other size of the bonfire. Her shoulders slumped

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The Lover of Ma-Biru

back down.

“Just in case you need it,” she said, pushing the basin a little more in my direction. Then, silence, if silence was at all possible in a place like this.

Serafina Canlaon. The letters chiseled over her station threshold said so—yet it was a name so untouchable, no one dared speak it in its entirety. The underlings called her manah and everyone higher on the steps called her “Ser,” as if passively acknowledging her authority.

She arrived at her station always right before the sun hit its zenith. She cycled the same three drapes. Her correas hugged her waist and her sayas always fell below her knees. All synthetic. Homegrown. Milieu couture. The possible permutations were staggering.

She holed herself in her station for the majority of the day.

Then, when the Earth moved to hide the Sun, my colleagues and I said our goodbyes, packed our belongings and went home, leaving her alone.

I took one good look at her—since the bonfire behind her drew a halo of light about her outline, I could see strands of hair that had escaped from her clip jut about randomly. Her w-sitting position crumpled her saya, which had seen an entire day’s worth of jostling about in preparation for the feast.

“You seem tired, manah.”

“That’s why I’m here. I would have still been caught in the midst of all those manohs from the other factions, hadn’t you passed out.” Her face was expressionless and unremorseful.

“So I’m your escape.” Our eyes met and lingered just long enough for me to betray my disappointment. I would’ve hit myself for my impudence but I was still feeling the effects of the astromix in my blood making it much easier to throw caution to the wind. Her eyes froze in time-space, like it held secrets of the universe, and I was sucked into it, my limbs spaghettifying under the enormous density— then there was lightlessness.

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 2

1-2 The capsule’s neuro-alarm brought me from REM to NREM1 before playing its prerecorded tune. I woke up to the cries of strange local fauna as the interior lighting beamed with bluish-white intensity, which I’d learned mimicked spring midmornings in Magnadisc’s vast indoor gardens. It was an experience equal parts familiar and alien.

The bluish-white light, of course, emulated that of the neighboring supergiant star Ma-Biru.

I checked the time and realized that only a couple of hours had passed. I exited my capsule and headed to the observation deck, where most of the passengers stood gathered, glasses poised for a good picture. A few latecomers sandwiched me into the throng of excited vacationers. For a moment, the phrase “Why am I here?” fluttered through my mind.

For several minutes, only Ma-Biru was visible on the display, and it grew like a balloon the more our vessel sped closer. Only the moment after the display had visual confirmation of its singular planetoid had I fathomed Ma-Biru’s true splendor; the supergiant took up most of the ceiling-high screen, and its great perimeter had enveloped a large fraction of visible space—and there, suspended like a speck of dirt on the display of a vector monitor, was The Lover.

As we sped even closer, the planetoid’s features became even more apparent to us. We were so close to the star, Ma-Biru now seemed to swallow more than a third of space, and The Lover appeared to us in a fashion not so dissimilar to Luna, save for the one detail that its north pole was aimed directly and perpetually toward the blue supergiant. Thus, only the northern hemisphere, named The Land of the Fire-Blessed, was exposed to the star’s heat, and it has been this way since the beginning—up to the era the first flame organisms crawled out of the Red Sea—and continuing on till the discovery of space travel.

Being this close to a star would’ve melted into just about anything but our vessel seemed to be able to withstand the star’s ungodly heat without letting its occupants feel the slightest discomfort.

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The Lover of Ma-Biru

Soon, the PA system advised everyone on board to wear the bulky space suits that had been left in our quarters. Equipped with radiation shielding and a micro magnetic field that served not only to deflect solar winds and myriad stray particles, but also to prevent Fire-Blessed citizens from “taking advantage of our susceptibility,” whatever that meant, these suits convinced me that wherever I was going, I would have been safe.

We landed on The Lover’s equator, The Ring of HalfLight. Only along this geographical ring encircling The Lover were aliens like us allowed to land on, for we would need to pass through customs before being granted access into the regions proper of either hemisphere. Looking northward, even from the equator, one could still see a large segment of Ma-Biru, perched on the horizon like a mountain of light.

Naturally, everyone opted to go northward into the cities proper of the Fire-Blessed; that was the purpose of this vacation, after all. The southern hemisphere never saw as much tourists, which was only natural; a land that hadn’t seen the light of day since the birth of its star would turn into a frigid, rocky wasteland, and here was where The Land of the fire-Blessed exiled its outcasts. The Ring of Half-Light existed to deter these exiles from returning. Local stories told of adventurers who sought to brave the southern lands and never returned. Though dangerous, the southern lands was a prospect that intrigued me just as much as its more popular sister hemisphere did.

Still, one can’t deny the allure of the Fire-Blessed race. Being the only form of intelligent life on The Lover, they chiefly tended to cluster up north, where the most effective way of powering their massive cities was to draw energy from the blue light of their host star. How denizens of the south survived, I knew not.

After spending a good hour in procedure, we were finally cleared to enter the Land of the Fire-Blessed. Two Fire-Blessed tour guides beckoned us into vehicles set ablaze with the same bluish hue. Only by this moment I thought to take a closer look at these indigenous people, as decorum had prevented me from staring at the Fire-Blessed inspectors for too long. The tour guides were bipedal

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 2

and they stood upright but their impossibly lithe anatomy couldn’t have been classified as humanoid. They moved with such deliberate motions that manifested their passion for work. Our cold, hulking space suits and awkward waddling contrasted vastly from their smoldering intensity and the natural blue flicker of their skin—a kind of combustion made to beautiful effect surely by the abundance of copper chloride in the planetoid’s atmosphere.

The ride didn’t take long. Before we knew it, we were speeding past glorious flaming city gates. The city itself rose from the planetoid’s curvature as if it were its own star. The ground blossomed with faint tongues of flame, some patches forming clumps that evolved into numerous species of varying combustion rates. Even the edges of the myriad architectural marvels blazed perpetually, bringing the outline of the cityscape to a tribal sway—and although the city was ablaze, its serene blue aesthetic which would have otherwise been a hellish landscape exuded the feeling of being deep underwater. Looking upward, you wouldn’t see the sky. Only Ma-Biru was there, looming over all of creation.

Much of the day passed like a fuse. The tour guides brought us to prime locations around the city. The city dwellers, turned their heads and stared at us tourists with bright eyes as if we were the ones on display. Their countenances were severe, and their gazes didn’t linger long for they carried on briskly to wherever it was they were headed. There were no plazas dense with playful children, no parks for leisure, only monolithic structures that seemed to poke out of the planetoid’s atmosphere.

Feeling unsatisfied after all the sightseeing, I once again questioned my motives for having come here in the first place. Why am I here? Because of manah, no doubt. Not that she wanted me to come here in the first place—not that I, myself, thought it would help in anyway, but I knew it was what I had to do.

After a long Earth day’s worth of touring, we traveled back to The Ring of Half Light and were ushered back into our vessel before dinnertime—and yet it didn’t feel like dinnertime, seeing as Ma-Biru shined on perpetually at one point in the sky.

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The Lover of Ma-Biru

I ate alone in my capsule. The interior ambiance mimicked a pleasant Earthlike nocturne. I decided to skip tomorrow’s tour so I could explore the southern hemisphere on my own.

0-2 I wiped saliva off my cheeks, still feeling far from sober. I ignored the growing pain in my left arm. I opened my eyes, feeling like I’d been through this once before.

“I told you not to sleep.”

“No, I was merely—” “It may be true that I have intentionally escaped duty but that doesn’t mean I’d neglect watching over anyone who is a danger to themself.”

There was a short pause, like she had something to say. I tried to recall events chronologically, but time seemed to run circles around my head.

“Manah—” “I’m sorry,” she interrupted.

“You deserve a break, manah. Talking to manohs doesn’t seem like an attractive proposition to me either.”

“That’s not what I’m sorry for.” This time, her composure flickered, like a tongue in the wind.

“Then what?”

“Why are you here?” she countered my question with another.

It hit me like a wave of shame.

“I’d barely recovered from my drunken trance when I blurted that out. Please forget I said it.”

“It’s something we need to remind ourselves of constantly.”

“I don’t even know what I meant by saying ‘here.’”

“That’s one more thing you have to figure out, isn’t it?”

I combed my mind for an answer.

Hearing no reply from me, she began, “When I was your age—when I was twenty one point nine one six vinculum years old to

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 2

be exact, I lost my fire. That’s why I’m here, away from home, and yet always excruciatingly close.” The droop in her tone spoke of a deep sadness.

Not wanting her to have shared something so personal without giving something in return, I hastily summoned honesty from the gut: “I was accepted into the company a month before the jubilee. I’d barely gotten used to my new responsibilities when all the celebrations took place. As I had also barely begun to form relations with my colleagues, they were quick to dare me into taking more drops of astromix than I would have, had I been aware of its potency.

And here I am, recovering from having passed out due to my petty debauchery, caught on the end of my superior’s whimsies. That’s why I’m here.”

“And that’s good enough.” Her gaze reached deep, prodding.

I made a desperate attempt at recollection. Good enough? What was I getting wrong? Why do I feel so uncertain? Our work station is— the bonfire? We are in an open field—what kind of work is it that we do here again? My colleagues—what did they look like? The past was swept from memory like a film of dust and I could feel myself floating in a cosmic void, where stars don’t exist nor dare shine their light into.

“I can’t think anymore.” My stomach began to act up.

“It’s probably the astromix,” she smiled. I looked straight into her eyes—eyes that betrayed not a hint of anything. How I wished I could read her intentions but I couldn’t penetrate her no matter how hard I gazed.

“You’re just as burned out as I am. Too much stress weakens connections between your neurons. Don’t think too much for now.”

“But—”

“Shush. Let me tell you a little story.” She pointed to a patch of stars overhead, while stroking my head. “Do you see that?” She asked.

“Which one?”

“Wrong,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Whenever someone points to the sky, don’t assume they’re referring to just the stars whose

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light has already reached us, or whose apparent magnitudes are lower than seven. What I’m pointing at is a section of time-space that is impossible to see with any normal telescope.”

So she could gaze easier toward the sky, she arched her back and stretched her limbs, unknowingly allowing a few stray photons of moonlight into her saya to reflect off her inner thighs. “A long time ago, in a supercluster far, far away,” she began, “a magnificent blue ball of fire, without a planetary system to call its own, saw a small rock pass by from out of the depths of space. How beautiful this rock was, it thought, and how naive. The star began to long for this rock but it would have had to act quick, since the rock would only take a momentary turn, slightly dipping into the star’s gravitational field, before zipping off into space once again, lost forever. It pulled onto the rock with all of its might, finally anchoring the rock into an extremely close orbit, making it so that only one side of the rock faced the star all throughout its revolution. This side blazed with the fires of heaven for many cycles until it was, in time, blessed with its seed.

The rock blossomed with new and beautiful life forms that moved with the same fiery grace of their mother,” she concluded her story, waiting for a reaction. I’d needed to sit on this new information for a while, afraid I might lose it like the rest of my memories. “No?” she said, asking if it sounded familiar. Whatever intentions she had were lost on me.

I shook my head.

“What I just told you was the most popular creation story of my home planet.”

A blur made its way from the other side of the bonfire and interrupted, whispering something into manah’s ear. I made out bits of information: A fight had broken out on the other side of the bonfire. She tutted loudly, then stood up and said, “Something requires immediate intervention. I will be right back. Do not sleep.”

“I won’t.” I closed my eyes but her face remained, like an afterimage of the Sun.

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1-3 Upon waking, I ate a hasty breakfast, slipped into my space suit and headed to the terminal that housed the Fire-Blessed vehicles. Upon lengthy inquiry, I discovered that transportation to the unnamed southern regions was not permitted. Undaunted, even by their repeated caveats, I stressed that I would make the journey on foot. So I could slip through, the officers let two giant gates open just enough, then immediately slammed them shut as I began making my way across the rocky landscape.

I hastened into a speedy jog and as I felt myself round the planetoid’s curvature, I occasionally looked behind me to see Ma-Biru sink deeper into the horizon, as slowly and gracefully as a sunset back home.

Home. Funny I was thinking about home, now of all times. What would send someone all the way across the universe?

Embarrassment. Anger. Despair. Or maybe quite the opposite. Or both extremes. Emotions are feisty little devils. Why am I here? I convinced myself I’d have peace of mind but at this point, I don’t really know anymore. I’d fallen in love with my superior, an affair that at the beginning had me elated but soon devolved into a mess I had no courage to face at the moment. Home is a place I don’t deserve right now. Now there was no path to follow; my only purpose was to head in the opposite direction of the star, hoping to find something or someone.

The farther I traveled, the larger the rock formations and the more uneven the terrain all became. Soon enough, after what felt like a couple of hours, Ma-Biru had vanished and so did all traces of light. The movements of my suit began to grow sluggish, burdened by the growing cold. I switched on the suit’s flashlight, which was barely enough to illuminate a few meters all around me. Darkness extended in all directions outside of the dim bubble my suit flashlight provided.

I felt like I was climbing up a mountain that jutted out into space.

I stood upon what I believed to be the highest point I’d reached so far and looked out into the abyss all around me. They

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say floating in space is an experience not so far removed from the transcendental effects born of psychotropics. I felt insignificant and intractably mortal, and therefore, supremely powerful that someone like me made it this far. I felt like one kick from the ground would have sent me careening into space, forever. The idea frightened yet excited me in equal measure. But a growing sense of hopelessness brought my mind back to the reality of the southern hemisphere of The Lover. I expected to find nothing and I did find nothing, which was strangely the most disappointing thing.

It was at this point I’d thought of retracing my steps—but then out of the darkness emerged one, then two, then three creatures, hobbling upon spindly legs, making their way toward me. I’d thought they blended in with the colorless crags but infinitesimal streaks like blue embers outlined their bodies ever so faintly. They spoke no words but it seemed they were friendly when they stopped and beckoned me to come follow them. I followed suit, and in the weak light, I observed their featureless faces, their skinny frames, and wrinkly, charred flesh as they limped all the way to their supposed campsite-cum-livingquarters, which looked like what would happen if one were to melt away the inside of a large boulder using only a blowtorch. It felt like stepping into a large kiln.

They beckoned me to sit on one of the poorly-formed igneous chairs. They made a few gestures, most of which I didn’t really understand. One of them made a motion as if removing a helmet.

The two others imitated the motion. I pondered on it for a while. The atomometer on my suit said that I was currently inside a dense oxygen pocket, and that it would’ve been safe to unlock my pressure helmet.

Seeing no violent movements from the three creatures, I decided to go through with it.

Click. Foreign, dusty air blasted through my nostrils and into my lungs. I coughed for a minute then regained my composure while these three creatures politely waited.

I began to engage in conversation with them. Or rather, I was the one striking up conversation and they simply nodded or shook their heads. Trial and error led me to the knowledge that these

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three were a few among a hundred other Fire-Blessed outcasts, all of whom had mysteriously lost their fire, for which became the cause of their expulsion from the Fire-Blessed society. I learned that they were now called the Fire-Forsaken. They were decreed to perish in this lonely land. Through mime, which was the extent of their ability for communication, they managed to get across that all Fire-Forsaken are to have a gathering, momentarily. They convinced me to stay and attend, and warned me to steer clear of choice individuals, those newly banished, young ones with a bit of fire in them left, who had yet to learn the customs of the south. I agreed to their proposal and spent the next hour in rest.

0-3 “Hey, wake up.”

I jolted awake to an intense, burning pain in my left arm. I winced wordlessly.

“Oh—what’s wrong?” she drew her hand back. No doubt she’d hit me on my injured shoulder to keep me from drifting off.

“My arm hurts every time I move it. I don’t remember how I got it,” I said, lightly prodding to see where the injury lay. It felt like my entire arm was broken.

“Oh, no. Why didn’t you say sooner? You must’ve landed on your arm when you collapsed after all those drops. If it’s serious, we can take you to—”

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s just a bruise.”

A wary glance.

“I think I’ve sobered up.” With my good arm, I attempted to push myself into a sitting position, which I instantly recognized as a bad move; the sudden motion made my dizziness return twofold. My stomach felt like it was being wrung. I vomited onto what I thought was the ground but was in fact part of her saya. She recoiled, slightly alarmed. I vomited once more onto my own balukas, unable to control myself. She got up to assist me.

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“Better to let it all out,” she said. I vomited one final time, into the basin. After all that, I had nothing left to give. “Well, at least the basin caught some of it,” she said, lifting her dripping saya away from her legs.

“I’bzorry,” I heaved.

She extended her hand. “Come, let’s step back into the offices for a bit. I remember there being a few spare garments lying around.”

I took her hand and was pleasantly surprised by its softness. She pulled me to my feet. Staggering but managing to keep my balance, we walked. Buildings rose from the ground. A staircase opened itself up for us and brought us up to our deserted departments. Moonlight seeped in from the forming windows. Sounds of merriment persisted from below.

She began to rummage through cabinets and drawers.

“Let me help,” I proposed.

“Quiet, just let me do this one thing. Ah, here.” She pulled out a balukas and threw it in my direction. She pulled out a saya for herself. “I’ll just be a while.” Smiling, her cheeks still flushed, she stepped into her office and shut the door. I could hear the sounds of rustling fabric from behind it.

I shook my head and turned away. I decided to change without moving from my spot. I let my good arm do all the work: lifting my vomit-stained balukas over my head, struggling to lift my injured arm.

Pain seared all over my body’s left half. This was definitely way more than just a bruise. I tried to get it out of its armhole. But the pain just wouldn’t let me. I stood there, balukas half over my head like some sort of makeshift arm-sling-strait-jacket, right arm resting on my head, wondering how to get myself out of this situation.

Her office door opened. I could feel her eyes on my exposed back.

“Don’t tell me,” said she.

“I would greatly appreciate it,” said me.

She walked over to where I was, stood in front of my disgraceful figure and examined me with a knuckle on her chin.

“On second thought—” said she.

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“Don’t leave me like this,” said me.

I wiggled my fingers. Anything more than that stirred my left arm, which hurt immensely.

“You said it was just a bruise.”

“Well—” I had no excuse.

She sighed. “Alright, go sit on your desk.” I did what she told me. “Does this hurt?” she tried to lift my arm.

A lot. “Just a bit.”

“Hold still.”

I held my breath. She drew closer and felt for the hem of my balukas. My head was level with her chest. Her forearm grazed mine. I gasped. I switched to breathing through my nose, fearful of bombarding her with vomit breath. Her body heat filled my nostrils.

The heady scent of astromix mingled with traces of lingering perfume.

Her legs pressed against mine. I was free of the neckhole. The fabric tugged on my shoulder. My eyelids jerked. Part of her skin grazed my arm once more. I didn’t mind. I could feel her hot breaths run down my front. Her beating was quick—or were they mine? Then—nothing.

“You can open your eyes now.” I did. “The things I do for my lovely subordinate,” she said, turning her head to keep from staring.

Moonlight further illuminated her face—a wispy outline fell like stardust from hairline to chin then was immediately swept inward, pulled into a hyperbolic trajectory to touch at her neck. “We should really get you to a doctor.”

“I’d rather go with a clean shirt on,” I said, covering myself.

“Alright. One more time, then.”

1-4 On a patch of rock I sat, surrounded by a hundred Fire-Forsaken.

Most of them had completely lost their fire while a stark minority still glowed and moved with a bit of zest. A group of five Fire-Forsaken, whom I presumed to be the leaders, moved their arms and brandished stone canes as if in the middle of a simultaneous, enthusiastic oration.

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One of the five, perhaps recently banished, still burned a somewhat distinct azure. I wasn’t entirely sure how these Fire-Forsaken communicated with one another, seeing as the entire sermon, which stretched on for several minutes, produced not a single sound.

The silent speech soon ended with one leader, the dimmest and probably the eldest, holding up something for everyone to behold.

Some bowed in prostration, others recoiled in fear, others yet inched slightly closer, fingers itching for a touch. The elder swung its cane to make the approaching ones retreat. It then presented the object to me: A chalice, which I assumed I had to drink from.

It was made of stone, like everything else they owned, but inside flowed a curiosity that made me tremble at the very scent of it. Pungent it was, and I had no way to discern its formula nor to determine where it had come from. The elder gestured for me to drink it. What had I to lose?

I downed the cup, which contained less than I expected.

The contents ran down my esophagus and I felt them drop into my stomach. The elder, satisfied, put down its cane and sat in the middle of the congregation. I heard him speak into my mind: “Welcome, our newest Fire-Forsaken.”

My stomach began to twist clockwise, and my head, in the other direction. “You will begin to feel weak, a temporary inconvenience.” My breaths grew steeper, my vision paused with every heartbeat, my limbs felt like giving way. The youngest leader, who had all this time remained stationary, suddenly blazed its way toward me.

It picked me up amidst cries of opposition. “No! You shall not have him for yourself!” The remaining four elders swung their canes at us to no avail. The young Fire-Forsaken leader let out a giant ball of fire and sent the crowd flying backward. Outlines disappeared and colors flowed freely between objects. Colors of blue fireballs, the yellow tinge of my flashlight, the white pinpoints of stars, and the ubiquitous blackness of space danced arm in arm. A stray fireball flew in and burned my entire left arm. The congregation chanted a ghastly tune that sunk into a decrescendo and became more distant as my kidnapper or savior scrambled to extricate me from the premises.

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On and on, this Fire-Forsaken carried me as I lapsed in and out of consciousness until a glorious blue light broke the monotony of the dark. Under my numbness and extreme synesthesia, Ma-Biru felt like the warmth of a hearth after a long night in the cold. It didn’t take long before we finally stopped and the lone Fire-Forsaken put me down. Even though its features were silhouetted against the giant star, I could not mistake that plume of hair and those abyssal eyes. “Please stay awake,” she said.

She carefully disrobed me of my space suit, brought me closer to her smoldering skin, and under the blue light of Ma-Biru, I was consumed.

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ALECSANDRA DENISE ONGCAL

Tawid 35

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LOUIE JON SANCHEZ

Ang Ritwal —Para kay Anthony Mabanes May kombersasyong tulad nito na nagpabibitaw Bigla ng pananalig. Kahit anong gawin natin, Ikulong man ito sa mga kamay ng kahigpitan, Guwang lamang ang iiral sa dibdib, waring Kahungkagan sa pusod ng magkadaop na palad.

Inuusisa natin sa sarili kung bakit naririto Tayo, nakaabang sa orisonte ng laksang búkas, Ay tila kapwa naliligaw, tinutugis ng bagabag.

Papaano ba ang kumilatis sa kipkip na mithi?

Madaling matutuhan ang pagdudahan ang bawat Pahiwatig—ang pagkabalisa sa kasalukuyang Kinalalagyan, abang sandali ng pagkatuliro, Libong ulit na pag-urong-pagsulong sa pasiyang Baka pagsisisi lamang ang isalubong. Walang Kasiguruhan, laging paniniyak natin sa isa’t Isa, ngunit sasalungatin natin ito bilang mito, Itinindig para sa madla ng mga unang nasawi.

Naririto ang dapat matutuhan, wiwikain mo: Sa maraming hindi inaasahang nagdidistiyero Sa atin, madalas, sa kasukalan ng paninindigan.

At magugunita mo ang rimarim ng iyong sariling Aksidente sa kalye, nang kitlan ang isinakay Lamang na kaibigan, at ika’y nanatiling buháy.

Nakaratay kang iminulat ng sala’t palaisipan.

Kaipala’y daraanan mo ang sinalpukang poste’t Ipagpapasalamat, muli, ang pagkakatagpo sa sarili.

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Sa mangha’y mananahimik na lamang ako’t Tutunghan ang mga sariling sugat; dinarama Sa bawat isa ang bawat kirot ng pag-iisa, maging Ng pag-uusisa hinggil sa sulok kong takda, At mumunakalain kong ang mahabang panahong Pagkatuto’y pagtupad lamang sa andang datnan Ang mga dako, kahit inip na’t nananatili rito Sa kinalalagyan, malas ang mga taóng dumaraan, Isinasapuso ang aral ng pag-uugat at pagyabong.

Ilang ulit na nga ba tayong nagkumustahan Habang lihim na palang pinapagsayaw ang kapwa Kaluluwa sa mga pangahas na alab? Nagugunita Ko tuloy ang paborito natin at kabesadong tula Na nang-uusig kung handa na ba tayong sumabay, Lumukso patungo sa puyo ng bugtong na lagablab— Na ang totoo’y sagisag ng sariling sari-saring nasà At bungang-tulog—isang paanyaya na magpadarang, Bigkas ang tanging ngalan ng pagtanggap, oo, oo, oo.

Agosto 5, 2014

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STEVEN ENCARNACION

On Devotees photo essay foreword by Janssen Dale Cunanan

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Sa paghuhulma ng realidad ay nauuna ang paningin kaysa ang salita. Sa mga mata unang madadatnan ng isang indibidwal ang mundong kinabibilangan at ang kalayaang kasama nito. Ngunit tulad ng lumang alegorya, madalas ay nalilinlang tayo ng mga aninong lumililim sa atin sa liwanag.

Bilang mga nilalang na nakagapos sa kakayahang umalam – o umiiral lamang dahil sa kaalaman nito – bibigyan natin ng kahulugan ang mundo ng anino, gamit ang salita. Marahil ay may katotohanan nga ang sinabi ng psychoanalyst na si Julia Kristeva na naka-angkla ang paniniwala sa salita at ang sarili sa paniniwala, kaya kahit na lumapit pa ang ibang liwanag sa atin ay ‘di natin ito agarang nililingon.

Dito pumapasok ang ambag ni Steven Encarnacion na seryeng “On Devotees” na binubuo ng mga retratong kinuha noong bumisita ang Santo Papa at noong Pista ng Itim na Nazareno. Nakahanap siya ng liwanag hindi sa umaakong tagapagbasbas nito kung ‘di sa mismong mga taong naroon sa ngalan man ng relihiyon, panatismo, tungkulin o pagkakataon.

Ang puwang sa gitna ng Santo Papa o itim na Nazareno at sa mga taong pangunahing paksa ng mga retrato ay nagsilbing constraint ni Encarnacion sa pagpapaliwanag ng sariling interpretasyon ng mga naganap. Sa pormang documentarian photography naman ay ihiniwalay niya ang serye sa politika at relihiyon upang mailagay sa sentro ang tao bilang naniniwalang nilalang. Paniniwala sa modang tulad nang binanggit ni Voltaire sa kanyang liham,“my interest in believing in something is not a proof of this thing’s existence.”

Tulad ng alegorya ay may tanikala ring nakapulupot sa ating katawan sa anyo ng trabaho, politika, pananampalataya at tradisyon. Inalalapit ng mga retrato ni Encarnacion ang mga natagpuan niyang liwanag sa panahon ng mga anino at dilim.

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 2

VYANKA XANDRA VELASQUEZ

Bala-dila

Noong Simula, napakalakas ng kapangyarihan ng salita. Pinanini-

walaan nila na sa Simula, ang unang salita ay nagmula sa hangin. Ang salita nito ay inusad ang dagat. At noon na nabuo ang lahat. Nagkaroon ng mga lamang dagat, nabuo ang lupa, sumunod ang mga hayop, at higit sa lahat ang mga tao. Ngunit nang naghirap ang mga tao ay nagkaroon ng mga taong-hayop.

Sa tao nabuo si Kei. Ang kaniyang nanay ay pinahahalagahan pa rin ang salita. Nakaukit pa rin sa isip niya na ang salita na bumuo sa lahat ay dapat panatilihing malinis, gamitin sa paguusap at hindi bilang isang armas sa iba. Ito ay pilit niyang pinapaalala sa dalagang si Kei.

Kaya’t nang gabing naghihingalo ang nanay, pilit nitong kinausap ang anak.

“Huwag,” hinigpitan ni Kei ang kapit sa kaniyang nanay, “Huwag na huwag kang magmumura,” kabilin-bilinan ng kaniyang nanay—ang buhok ay puti na sa kaniyang isang daang taong pananatili sa mundo, at ngayo’y ang paghinga’y humuhuni na—sa kaniyang dalagang anak na si Kei. “Kung hindi, lalabas ang dila mo mula sa iyong libingan. Tandaan mo iyan, anak, tandaan mo iyan.”

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“Opo, Inang,” sagot ni Kei.

“Tandaan mo, ang salita ay sagrado. Makasalanan ang pagbaboy nito. Hanggang sa mundong ibabaw lamang ang mga makasalanan. Kaya’t huwag na huwag kang magmumura. Alam mo kung ano ang mangyayari sa iyo kapag—.”

“Pangako po. Pangako, Inang.”

Sa kanilang kuwarto, sa tabi ng papag ng kaniyang Inang, sa pagpilantik ng dila ni Kei, lumabas ang salita mula sa kaniyang maninipis na bibig. Sa kanilang katahimikan, ang mga salita ay dumikit sa dingding ng kuwarto. Binago nito ang hangin, naging mabigat, mainit. Lalong nahirapan huminga ang nanay ni Kei.

“Ipangako mo rin na iingatan—mo ang perlas na hikaw—at ipapamana…”

“Opo Inang, opo. Pangako po.”

Sa pagsagot niya ay tumigil ang paghinga ng kaniyang nanay, hindi na nito nailabas ang hangin na pinabigat ng salita. Nawala na ang pagtibok ng isang daang taong puso nito.

Nanatiling malinis ang bibig at pananalita ni Kei. Nagdaan ang mga taon at ang mga dekada. Nangitim na ang mga ulap, nagsilakihan na ang mga mata ng mga bagyo, natakpan na ang kalangitan sa pagtayo ng mga torre ng mga tao, nawalan na ng lalakaran ang mga mamamayan, nabudburan na ng mura ang kalye at ang mga bibig ng mga bubuwit na bata, na nagiging taong-hayop na, na natututo nang ipuslit ang kanilang kiti-kiting kamay sa mga bulsa ng mga naglalakad na babae o lalaki.

Subalit kahit anong danasing kamalasan ni Kei—makatakas man ang mga alitaptap sa boteng bombilya, o nang umalis ang lalaking kaniyang ninais, o nang nagkaroon ng malakas na hangin na nagtatangay sa kaniyang bubong habang siya lamang ang nag-aalaga sa supling na dinala niyang mag-isa, at hanggang nang malamang nabangga ang kaniyang anak na ilang taon pa lamang—ay hindi kailanman nagmura si Kei, kahit na ang kaniyang paligid ay puno ng mga taong-hayop na walang ibang lumabas sa bibig kung hindi “putang ina” o “gago” o “hinayupak” at tuluyang dinudumihan ang hangin. Binabati lamang ni Kei ang mga kamalasan ng nanginginig na ngiti o pagkulot ng noo o

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ng pagngawa sa balikat ng kaniyang mga natitirang kamag-anak.

Ang perlas na hikaw — na sinisid pa ng kanilang mga sinaunang dalaga sa pusod ng dagat bago pa dumating ang mga higanting puting lalaki, mga perlas na nabuo dahil sa patuloy na pagsundot ng buhangin sa labas at loob ng lukan, na siyang kinuha ng mga dalaga’t dinala sa lupa at isinuot sa kanilang sarili hanggang sila’y nagka-asawa at anak—ay nakatago na. Kasama nito ang mga baro’t blusang nakatiklop at bihirang ilabas sa isang aparador. Ang mga ito’y hindi na maisuot ni Kei o ng kung sino pa man. Iba na ang panahon.

Mainit na ang kapaligiran sa dami ng pangako ng mga pinunong ang mga salita’y dinudumihan ang hangin, sa pagtayo ng mga torre sa paligid na pinipigilan ang pag-ihip ng hangin sa siyudad, sa mga taong kasing dami na ng langgam na nagnanais na maghanap ng ipanglalagay sa kanilang mga bibig para dumaloy sa kanilang tiyan at mabuhay, sa dami ng nawawala sa kalye na napapamura na lamang ang mga tao sa kanilang kamalasan.

Subalit isang gabi, matapos ng maagang pagyao ng kaniyang binatang anak—na nasagasaan ng mga taong-hayop na hindi man lamang tumigil para tulungan ang naghihingalong lalaki—si Kei ay humiga sa kaniyang papag na isang linggong hindi nagalawan.

Sa gitna ng pagngangawa para sa kakalibing lamang na anak—na dinala’t inalagaang mag-isa, na nagsisilbing alala sa lalaking lumisan sa kaniya, ang anak na palaging kasama—nakita niyang may gumagalaw sa kaniyang kuwarto.

Sa kadiliman, nakita niya ang paggalaw ng anino sa liwanag ng buwan. Tahimik ngunit mabilis. Isang taong-ahas, nagbabalatkayo, inaangkin ang kadiliman ng gabi, gumagapang sa tabi ng aparador kung saan nakatago ang mga alahas niya, ang kaniyang mga pula’t luntiang batong nakakabit sa ginto’t pilak at ang kabilin-bilinang perlas na hikaw na pamana ng kaniyang nanay.

Nakita ni Kei na may bakal na hindi kayang magbalatkayo sa kadiliman at sa kamay ng taong-hayop, isang baril na maliit, hindi mabitawan sa kabila ng paghahakot ng alahas ni Kei.

Narinig ni Kei ang pagtibok ng kaniyang puso.

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Bala-dila

Hindi napigilan ng dila ni Kei na gumalaw.

“Hoy!” Lumabas mula sa bibig ni Kei.

Humarap sa kaniya ang taong-hayop. Tumayo si Kei—hindi pa nakauusad sa hinanakit sa kawalan ng kaniyang anak na ang buhay ay ninakaw din ng isang kotse; ang galit ay namuo sa kaniyang puso, pagod na sa pagkuha sa mahahalaga sa kaniyang buhay. Tumayo si Kei at nilusob niya ang anino.

“Hinayupak ka! Mandurugas! Walang modo! Anak ka ng puta!”

At sa isang saglit ay naalala niya ang kaniyang nanay, ang huling salita nito bago namatay, at ang kaniyang paglabag nito.

Isang putok ang narinig. May isang bala na tumagos sa lalamunan ni Kei. Narinig ng mga kamag-anak ang putok. Nang umihip ang hangin, pinataas nito ang kanilang balahibo. Sa bigat at maalinsangan na hangit nalaman na sinabi na ni Kei ang huli niyang salita. Pumunta sila sa tahanan nito. Inilibing nila. Wala nang ngumawa. Naubos na ang luha ng kaniyang kamag-anak—di tulad noong libing ng kaniyang binatang anak. Binigyan nila si Kei ng parada ng mga nakaputing mga tao at mga bulaklak. Ibinaba ang ataul ni Kei sa ilalim ng lupa, tinabunan ng lupa, inilapat na ang lapidang marmol.

Ngunit hindi marunong makakalimot ng sumpa ang salita, sapagkat sa hangin napupunta ang mga lumalabas sa bibig ng bawat nilalang, sa hangin na siyang isa sa mga unang nagsalita sa mundo. At ang mga salitang lumabas sa dila’y nilabag, kaya’t natupad ang sinabi ng Inang. Mula sa bibig ni Kei ay lumabas ang dila. Ang tigas nito’y nabasag ang salamin at ang kahoy ng kabaong, at hinati nito ang anim na talampakan ng lupa at lumabas muli sa mundong ibabaw.

Makalipas ang panahon, muling bumalik ang mga kadugo ni Kei sa kaniyang puntod. Nilinis nila ito. Inalayan nila ng calla lily ang lapida niya at ng iba pang kadugo. At noon nila nakita ang dulo ng dila ng nakalibing na Kei. Nakalabas sa hukay: matigas at masangsang.

Nagulat sila na nakayanan ni Kei na dumihan ang dila. Ang mabuting si Kei, ang masunuring si Kei, ang Kei na ngumingiti o umiiyak lamang.

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Paano nakayanan ni Kei maglabas ng masamang salita?

Pinalibutan nila ang bulok na dila ng mga puting calla lily.

Nagsambit sila ng mga salita para dito, mga salitang humihingi ng paumanhin sa Inang ni Kei, mga salitang nagtetestimonya sa kabutihan ni Kei, sa kaniyang pagiging masunurin. Nang matapos ay tumalikod sila upang umuwi sa kani-kanilang bahay kasama ang kanilang mga ina o anak.

Habang naglalakad ang mga kamag-anak ni Kei, umihip ang hangin. Itinumba nito ang puting calla lily ngunit ang dila ay nakalabas pa rin.

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CHRISTEL KIMBERLY CANTILLAS

Salitang Kalye Titulo ko po ang Mundo, kalahati ng Kalangitan.

Hindi ito biro.

Nagsalita po ako, puno ng paggalang.

Kinulong ninyo dati, pagkaalaga.

Tumagos siya sa loob, pagkaalala.

Ayaw ko po ng sinungaling.

Ang salita kong marumi puno ng mahal.

Ang salita kong madungis puno ng dasal.

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MANUEL VILLA III

non-titled

I

So here I sit face to face with yet my life’s toughest challenge. That

is, to tell a story that isn’t about me, for you see I’ve already failed. I think we’re all aware of the difficulty of separating our mind from the real world (note that I used the word “difficulty” instead of “impossibility” [for we are facultative parasites like armillaria, which can live independently of the host-tree called life {esoteric reference c/o The Free Encyclopedia}] note that I used the word “real” instead of “physical,” [for I know that every rock and tree and creature has a yadda yadda {don’t sue me; I declare fair use}] note that I referred to myself eight times in a story I swore wouldn’t be about me [don’t even bother counting; we’re all going to get very different results] note that we are nine-ish lines in [that depends on the publisher’s format for page layout] and we’ve discovered two things so far: one, my insufferable habit of stalling and two, my propensity to act on the pretense of being an intellectual with a vendetta against casual diction not to mention proper use of // caesurae and “punctuation,”.)

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and I’ve lost my original train of thought after that huge chunk in parenthesis but know this: a raven is like a writing desk ‘cause I shall write about myself nevermore.

II I lied. I’m a writer. That’s what I do. Here I am on this earth, trying to make something I could call worthwhile and what is a work of art but an arrangement of things inside me, which were once parts of something else, which were once parts of something more distant, more primeval? The author is authored is authored is a rose is a rose is a rose, and the human condition is this beautiful burden we have locked up inside our minds, how golden its warmth of day, how frightful its lightless night, and it would only need a shattering of shackles to let it run wild. And then there’s us: Human beings. Homo sapiens sapiens.

Despite all the beauty we are capable of we still manage to come off as living proof of God’s biggest disappointment. And now I bet he’s at the local celestial pub, sitting right next to Krishna, chugging a brewski, and drinking off his worries for having created a race so powerful, so much in his image and likeness that it grew up to be much stronger than He. III My ego is the universe. I reach into myself and squeeze out the world, behold! This globe is too wide for my ribs, too heavy for my lungs, exhale only when there’s time, but no clock can stop the smoke, so bre—athe. I can only have that much room in my lungs. There was a metaphor here somewhere but it’s hung over the text like Joyce after a night of shots; cock the barrel of the bottle and bang-bang-bang till my feet do the same; and bang-bang-bang all night long.

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IV The world is my stage. Scream! Scathe! The producers have withdrawn their funding! The director is canoodling with the playwright! My prompter’s lost her cue cards! My fans are stuck in traffic! Improvization is all I have and can do. Razzmatazz! Shillyshally! Supercali-something-something-satan-is-precocious! I am alone. I can’t be certain anyone is listening and I can think that all this is for naught but I look beyond the drapes and find that I’m in an abandoned Warner Bros. Sound Stage of universal proportion. There are other miniature stages just like mine, every one of them populated with their own unique one-man play. I wave at a nearby friend half a stage across from mine and he waves back but promptly returns to his protracted spiel. Who knows who he’s talking to; the creator of the Sound Stage has long since left. Our stages don’t belong to us; they have been owned by whoever came before us. These stages were built from the materials of the universe. I break the fourth wall because there is a part of me that wants to know you. It wants to see you and hear you and touch you and it hopes I’m just as real as everyone else.

V This text took a turn for the worse. It’s not what I wanted it to be. I had hoped to discuss loneliness and fungi and spirituality and sexual drives and rebellion and intertextuality and pop culture and phenomenology and pretentious topics and thespianism and didacticism and made-up words and irony and illegal drugs and innuendos and internet culture and linguistics and the concept of love and bad puns and narcissism and stream of consciousness and sarcasm and breaking conventions and abrupt endings

Previously published in Self-as-Subject: The Multiple eXposure Project Zine 1.0

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MIGUEL ANTONIO LUISTRO

Talaro 55

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KATRINA ALYSSA TANKEH

Re-enchantment of a Pervert

The first thing you will notice about Lovely at first glance is how

she walks like a panther in a crowd of hounds. She struts into your office with her static-zapped hair and heels like daggers and you will resist the urge to hum “Toxic” by Britney Spears. You ask her to sit on the chair you’ve asphyxiated with Lysol too many times that day. She crosses her legs. One hand rests on her knee. A fingernail is unpolished. You feel confident that this is her first application for a PR firm yet you ask her anyway.

“Second,” she says. You blush a little.

On the header of her resume, she listed down ghoddezz42285@ yahoo.com.ph as her e-mail address. You will not look at the resume again for the entire interview. You ask about her expectations from the staff position, her skills, her reason for application. She wants the job for the money, she can operate a PC (“I know how to change the screensaver.”), also just for the money. You admire her for her honesty. And maybe for the strands of hair on her cleavage.

Holding her folder, you walk her out to the door. You touch her gently on the small of her back. “We’ll give you a call,” you tell

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applicants you have no plans of seeing again. This time, you mean it.

She doesn’t answer. You only see her get smaller and smaller as she walks down the hallway, your eyes fixated on her cellulite-ridden thighs.

You exhale. You close the door to your office and collapse back onto your swiveling chair. Her folder falls on your lap. Underneath it is the biggest boner you’ve had in years.

The garage will reek of oregano and pickled onions when you get home. In the kitchen, your wife is hunched over a skillet of sautéed whatever-the-fuck-you’re-having-for-dinner. Gloria smiles at you.

Only now you notice the new toes on her crow’s feet and you wonder if your wife is secretly ten years your senior. You rest a hand on her right shoulder. It pokes you somehow. You remember the only time you told her you wanted “a little meat” and she flung her chagrin at you in the form of a tantrum. You didn’t know 27-year-olds still threw around tantrums.

She asks how your day went. “Great,” you say. She has a surprised look on her face. You press your lips to her hair and head straight to the dining room.

On the television, the same broadcaster rambles on about the same rapist in custody. Civilians are gathered outside the court with their phones in the air. A footage of the courtroom hearing appears on the screen. The lawyer loosens his tie. The rapist wears a placid face. You think he is a bit too attractive for a rapist.

You sense Gloria’s eyes on you as she pours tzatziki over your chicken. She sits down across you and waits for you to start eating before she dunks her spoon into her mouth.

“How is it?” she asks in between chews.

“Perfect.” It’s a little gritty.

Her grin reaches her eyes. You feel guilty for lying.

You read the last seven pages of The Magic of Public Relations in bed. Gloria steps out of the bathroom, fresh from a shower. She slowly walks to her side of the bed, slipping the robe off her shoulders, hanging it on the dresser stool. She is wearing the satin slip that you

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bought her for her birthday five years ago. The last time she wore it was during your trip to Burma. You told her she looked cute. She said it “fit like a sack.”

Upon hearing the bed springs squeak, you close your book.

You reach for Gloria’s hair, always her hair. After enough rubbing, you turn to one side. You are facing the wall. You can hear her controlled breaths, her polite disappointment. You close your eyes. She crawls under your arm and falls asleep. For the rest of the night, you will feel snuggled by a cold chop of wagyu beef.

On her first day, Lovely is late by thirteen minutes. Annita, your accounts officer, gives her a brief orientation. Lovely’s desk is beside Joanna’s. Joanna is away for the entire week. Lovely’s ankle is already coiled around the base of Joanna’s chair, her other foot tapping the pedal of her trash bin. Earphones are plugged into her ears. She sways her head to a song. Prima from marketing is staring at her. So is Manuel from accounts. You want to kick Manuel in the nuts.

On Wednesday, you sit beside Annita and Tomas for lunch.

“May I?” you ask. A millisecond look of doubt passes between the both of them, but Tomas shrugs and Annita pulls you a chair.

They talk about the pope. Tomas says his grandmother’s heart ailment improved after the pope’s visit. Annita says the pope has crazy eyes. Tomas disagrees, but you know he secretly wants to fuck her.

You see Lovely samba her way into the cafeteria. Jenny, another staff member, waves at her from another table. Today, Lovely is wearing shorter heels but an even shorter skirt, her hair tied into a ponytail she separates into two weaves that dangle on her shoulders.

They look like snakes.

Jenny’s mouth opens and closes at an inhuman speed and not once do you see food enter her mouth. Lovely doesn’t look at Jenny. She slurps on her spaghetti like she’s the queen of all things filthy but wipes the sauce off her lips with a carnality you’ve only seen from Monica Bellucci. Then you realize she looks a little like a young Monica Bellucci.

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You come home one night with Gloria lying on the couch in nothing but her only pair of lace underwear. All the lights are off except for the luminance of a naked woman with blonde hair on the television being swung around by two black men in fedora hats. A bottle of Tavernello, a quarter-filled glass, and an empty glass (which you assume is yours) are on the table.

“Where’s dinner?” you ask her.

“Right here,” she spreads her legs.

You look away. “Cover up, Gloria, it’s cold.”

“I will be if you don’t—” You walk to the kitchen. The faucet is running. Orange light peeks from the refrigerator door. The marker to the magnetic white board is missing. You groan a little. You rummage through the fridge for anything edible, and you find a plastic container. Inside it is a zucchini. You don’t remember buying a zucchini. It’s wrinkled like a prune. You toss it into the trash bin.

Gloria is on the floor, gulping down the contents of the bottle. You plop onto the space beside her. You snatch the bottle from her, holding it as high as your arms could possibly reach. She screams at you. You rub her hair. She pulls the hem of your polo and sobs onto it. You hide the bottle behind your back.

“Do you still love me?” Gloria faces you, snot running down to her mouth.

You blink. “Of course.”

She grabs your hand and pushes it against her tits and you feel nothing but dimpled skin and bones. Your fingers whiten from the pressure. She looks at your face then down to your crotch. Your arm falls limp on your lap. She slaps you with her tiny hand—a force you never thought she was capable of producing hits you hard on the head. Your left ear rings a little. She grabs the couch pillow and covers her body. Her shadow looms over you; you dare not look at her. Running to the bedroom, she yells at you to kill yourself before she slams the door.

One man on the video thrusts into the woman’s mouth while the other plays with himself. You drink whatever’s left of the

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bottle. You also take Gloria’s glass. The last drops of wine glide down your throat and it burns your stomach. The only sounds you hear before you flake out on the carpet are the frantic whimpers from the television screen.

When you get to the office, everyone avoids looking you in the eye.

Joanna delivers two week’s worth of unattended paperwork to your table. She tells you that four requests from companies are in pending and are only waiting for your approval. You massage your temples.

You nod slightly, and Joanna walks out of the room.

You hear a rampant ratata against the floor. Lovely is late again. Her hair, still wet and uncombed, is webbed all over the sides of her face. Her lips are a bright shade of red, Coca-Cola red, fire alarm red. She is wearing a silver dress. She slams her bag onto the desk. She sits back and combs her fingers through her hair. Her legs are crossed, as usual, but you pray she pulls off a Sharon Stone.

Joanna taps Lovely on the shoulder. She snaps her head to the other side. Her hair whips in the air, gliding off her bare shoulders.

Joanna mouths something to Lovely, pointing to your office with her lips. Lovely raises her eyebrows. She looks in your direction. From her desk, through the glass, she is looking at you now.

You hold her gaze. Your pants tighten.

Annita breaks your line of vision and walks over to Lovely’s desk with a folder. Lovely stands up with her cup of coffee. She gets the folder and Annita leaves. Lovely struts out the door and disappears around the corner.

You lean back on your chair. You stretch your arms over your head. You smile to yourself and think, too bad, you’re a bit too attractive for a pervert.

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CZYRONE ANGELO GALANG

Marae graphite on paper

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LOUIE JON SANCHEZ

Lumbay Ang pagtipa ng Bon Iver sa teklado’y pagsuko Sa kabatirang walang namamagitan, wala Ang namamagitan sa atin. Pawang mga kuwento Ng sapalaran sa dalawang taóng kani-kaniyang Paglilimayon. Ikaw, na nakatagpo ng mangingibig, At iwinaglit iyon; at akong nagpakaligaw sa pag-iisa Na parang iyon na lamang ang pinakahuling Sinisinta. Hinahabol ng kuwentuhan ang tama Ng wiski ay magkaharap tayo sa iyong mesa, Mistulang minamalas ang bawat lumbay, kapwa Dalaw sa isang matamlay na Biyernes, na plano Sanang iinom pa at isayaw sa isang huntahan— Ngunit pinipiling harapin itong mga pinagdaanan, Sarilinan, at tila ba higit na nakita ko ang mukha Mong noon pa’y gaba ng anino, di ka nilulubayan, Habang kaybigat ng pag-amin mo sa kahirapang Magbukas, ganap, maging kapiling ng sinoman.

Sa isip, kaytagal-tagal na rin talaga’t wari’y may Hugas na ng liwanag ang ating paglalayo noon— Ang mga sandaling ito’y kakalasan, at sa iyong Antok na hindi na maipagpaliban, sa unti-unting Pagdighay ko sa alkohol, akmang sumasabat Ang sumbat ng awit, sambit ang di kita mapaiibig Kung ayaw mo. Sa kuwentuhan, marami ka nang

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Limot sa akin, ngunit di ka bagabag; di tulad ko Nang makatagpo kang muli at halos kolektahin Sa málay ang lahat ng gunita. Nangaligkig ako Sa pagkakalimot ng iyong ngalan, tanda yata Ng kusang pagsawata sa bawat lunggati’t maaari, Sa bawat maaari. Tikatik ng ulan ang bawat bagsak Ng teklado ngayong gabi. Nakasilip ang lungsod Sa iyong bintana, nakatanod, kumikislap, palamlam.

Marso 8, 2014

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MARIEL CHRISTINE CUARTERO

Hindi Lang Sa Mata graphite on paper

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JANSSEN DALE CUNANAN

Barbie

Isinara ni Vina ang pinto ng banyo at ibinaba ang salawal. Umupo

siya sa bukana ng inidoro at hinintay mapakawalan ang pinipigilang ihi. Dahil manipis at sira-sira na ang pinto ng banyo ay rinig na rinig niya ang sunod-sunod na yapak ng mga tsinelas sa mamasa-masang semento sa labas ng kanilang bahay kasabay ang mga tawanan ng mga bata. Mapusyaw na ang pagkadilaw ng tanghali. Naririnig niya ang isang inang pinangangaralan ang anak, walang paalam na pumapasok ang boses sa kanilang bahay. Kesyo anong oras pa lamang ay nanlilimahid na raw ito kalalaro, ka-babaeng tao pa man daw nito, wala man lang paki sa katawan. Malakas ang mga hagikhikan ng mga naglalaro sa tapat ng bahay nina Vina. Nag-aasaran sila kung sino ang may gusto kanino. May dumadaang mga dalagang nakikipagtsismisan sa kanilang mga kaibigan. Ang isa’y nagsusumbong sa ginawa sa kanya ng isang lalaking nagngangalang Ron. Tumutunog nang tuloy-tuloy ang pindutan ng cellphone. Ang isa nama’y niyayaya ang kasamang pumunta sa liga ng basketball sa Bayan. Doon galing ang tatay ni Vina bago ito pumasok ng bahay.

“Kevin, nasan ka?” may pagmamayabang ang matambok

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nitong tiyang naka-usli sa kupas na pantalon.

“Nasa banyo po.”

“Naipasok mo na ba yung pina-igib natin sa banyo?”

“Hindi pa naman po dumadaan si Ariel, e.”

“Ha? Anak ng puta naman, o. Naunahan na naman siguro yung baboy na yun sa pila,” pumasok ito sa loob ng bahay at kumuha ng pamunas. “Ipasok mo na lang yung tubig pagdating, ha. Ikaw na bahala dito habang wala ang nanay mo. Gagabihin daw siya sa trabaho.”

Biglang natahimik ang bahay. Hindi nagtagal ay narinig na rin ni Vina ang mahinang pagbagsak ng ihi sa inidoro. Nakahinga na rin siya nang maluwag.

Nang matapos ay binuhos na niya ang natitirang laman ng timba ngunit barado ang inidoro. Muntik pang umapaw ang tubig.

Napakamot na lang ng bumbunan si Vina sa nangyari, hinayaan na lang niya, baka mamaya ay lulubog din ito.

Lumabas siya ng banyo at pumasok ng kuwarto. Inabot niya ang ipit sa buhok sa tapat ng salamin. Samut-saring ipit ang nakakalat sa lalagyan. Lahat ito ay binili niya sa tindahan sa tapat ng basketball court ng tiglilimang-piso. Madalas pagbili ng bagong ipit ay halos iparada na niya ito sa buong lugar. At dahil maalaga rin si Vina sa kanyang buhok ay inuulanan siya ng papuri ng iba pang kaibigang bakla, ang ganda niya raw, mukha siyang manika. Matatapos ang araw niyang masayang nag-aabang mapansin ng mga naglalaro.

“Bading!” Sabay takbo ang mga batang lalaking sinisilip si Vina sa bukas na bintana ng kanilang bahay.

“Ay, leche!” na sinabayan niya naman ng pagbato ng tsinelas.

“Subukan niyong dumaan uli dito, kukutusan ko kayo isaisa,” hinahabol niya ng bulyaw ang mga batang hindi na niya makita.

“Bwiset, kasira ng umaga. Hay nako, sayang beauty ko sa mga yon.”

Inayos niya uli ang buhok at ipit sa salamin bago tuluyang lumabas ng bahay.

Napatigil siya sa paglalakad nang mapadaan sa bahay nina Beauty.

Mapapansing luma na ang bahay sa unang tingin pa lang dito. Usapusapa’y ito raw ang pinakamatandang bahay sa lugar nila, itinayo pa raw

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noong panahon ng mga Kastila. Tuwang-tuwa raw ang mga may-ari ng bahay nang makitang nakatayo pa rin ito pagkatapos ng pananakop ng mga Hapon. Kung hindi lang pinaayos ng pamilya ni Beauty ay malamang binabahayan na ito ng mga anay. Bagong pintura rin ang mga pader nito para maitago ang katandaan. Matingkad na dilaw ang kulay, ang paboritong kulay ni Vina. Sa tuwing makikita niya ang bahay ay nabibighani siya sa itsura nito. Ipinagmamalaki pa ni Beauty sa lahat na ipinatayo pa ‘to ng lolo ng lolo ng lolo niya. Paminsa’y nangarap si Vina na makatira rin sa bahay na ‘to.

“Hiramin mo muna ‘tong barbie ko.” Narinig niya si Beauty na nakikipaglaro sa mga kaibigan nitong babae. Hawak-hawak nito ang isang manika na kumikinang ang buhok.

“Wow, ang ganda ng barbie mo. Pwede ba akong sumali?” tanong ni Vina.

“Okay lang pero wala na akong extrang barbie, e. Pinahiram ko na sa kanila.” Tinuro niya ang mga kaibigang nakatingin rin sa bagong dating na si Vina.

“Ay ganun,” nag-isip siya kung paano makakasali nang hindi kakailanganin ang maliit na manika. “E, kung mag-role-play na lang kaya tayo, parang yung sa school.”

Pinaalala niya sa mga kalaro yung ginawa nila noong nakaraang linggo sa eskuwelahan nang magpa-contest ang guro nila sa klase, ang pinakamagandang role-play daw ang mananalo ng isang set ng crayola.

Natalo ang grupo nina Beauty.

“O sige,” tinignan ni Beauty ang kahon ng kanyang manika at nagsimulang bigyan ng pangalanan ang mga kaibigan. “Ikaw si Skipper.

Ikaw naman si Stacie. Hm, Francie. Tapos Jazzie.” Tinuloy niya ito hanggang sa lahat na ng kaibigan niyang babae ay may pangalan.

“E, ako? Sino ako?” tanong ni Vina.

“Hm, ikaw na lang si Ken muna.”

“Ay, hala. Ken daw. Ako na lang si Barbie.”

“Hindi puwede, ako si Barbie, e.”

“E ‘di, parehas na lang tayong si Barbie. O ‘di ba.” Nagtawanan ang mga kaibigan ni Beauty.

“Hindi rin pwede yun. Isa lang dapat ang Barbie.”

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“O, ba’t hindi pwedeng ako yun?”

“Ano ka ba? Tignan mo nga ‘tong Barbie ko, o. Ang sexy ng legs. Parang sa akin. Tignan mo yung sayo buto-buto. Ang payatot.

Paano ka magiging si Barbie?” Tinignan ni Vina ang kanyang yayat na mga binti. Hindi niya mapigilang sumang-ayon sa mga nasabi ni Beauty.

“Alam ko na. Babalik ako, ok?”

Nagmamadaling umuwi sa bahay si Vina. Pagkarating niya ay agad niyang kinuha sa bag ang napanalunang crayola. Napatigil siya at nag-isip. Ginalugad ng mata niya ang bawat sulok ng bahay, naghahanap. Naalala niya ang kartong nilagay nila sa ibaba ng kutson para hindi sila pasukin ng lamig sa gabi. Dumiretso siya sa kuwarto at hinila ang kartong napapaibabawan ng manipis na kutson. Inabot niya ang gunting sa kusina na halos komidor na rin ng bahay sa liit.

Gumupit siya ng isang mahaba at malamang binti. Pinili niya nang mabuti kung ano ang mga kulay na gagamitin. Tinantiya ang bawat hagod ng crayola sa karton. Kailangan perpekto ang gawa. Matapos ang pagbagsak ng ilang butil ng pawis ni Vina ay natapos din niya ang mga binti. Sinukat niya ito sa salamin. Kahit sino mang makakakita ay maaakit sa ginawa niya. Umupo siya sa kutson at tinanggal ang sariling mga binti. Kinuha niya ang mga bagong gawang binti at ikinabit sa sarili. Sinubukan niyang tumayo. Inunat-unat ang mga paa at tumalontalon. Napansin niyang medyo mahina ang kanyang tuhod, na mabilis itong tumiklop. Ngunit hinayaan na niya ito. Ang importante ay makahabol siya sa laro nina Beauty.

“Beauty! Tignan mo o,” pagmamalaki ni Vina nang makabalik siya sa bahay nina Beauty. “Ang ganda na ng legs ko.”

“Wow, ang ganda. Paano mo nagawa yan?” Minamasdan ni Beauty at ng mga kaibigan niya ang bagong binti ni Vina.

“Secret. Pwede na ba ako maging si Barbie?” Sunod-sunod na ang mga tango ng iba pang mga kalaro nilang babae.

“Hm, hindi pa rin pwede, e,” sagot ni Beauty.

“Ha, bakit?”

“E, kasi yung mga kamay mo. Hindi bagay sa legs mo. Tignan mo may masel ka pa. Tapos ang nipis ng braso mo. Ang pangit.”

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“Oo nga ‘no,” sabat ng isa pang bata. “Tignan mo rin yung dibdib mo, hindi kayo parehas ni Barbie.”

“Hindi rin naman kayo parehas, a.”

“Pero sabi ni nanay paglaki ko magkakaron din ako ng dede.”

Natawa ang iba pang mga bata ngunit hindi nawala ang pagmamayabang sa mukha ng nagsalita.

“Kung gusto mo talagang maging si Barbie, dapat may ganyan ka,” pagtatapos ni Beauty.

Kumaripas uli ng takbo si Vina pauwi ng bahay at hinanap ang natirang karton, gunting at crayola. Habang ginugupit ang karton ay pumatak ang pawis niya dito. Agad niya itong pinunasan. Ingat na ingat siya sa magiging bagong kamay at dibdib. Matapos gupitin ay sinimulan na niyang magkulay. Mabigat na ang bawat paggasgas ng crayola sa karton ngunit hindi pa rin ito lumalagpas at nahahalo sa ibang kulay. Sinuot ni Vina ang bagong kamay at dibdib nang hindi man lang niya ‘to sinukat muna sa salamin. Pagbalik niya sa bahay nina Beauty ay halos hinahabol niya ang kanyang hininga. Ramdam na ramdam niyang pumipintig ang lahat ng ugat niya sa katawan.

Nagtawanan ang mga bata nang makita siyang nakaposturang modelo sa tapat nila.

“O baket? Anong nakakatawa?”

“Nakita mo na ba sarili mo sa salamin?” Tanong ni Beauty.

“Bakit? Anong meron?” Tuloy pa rin sa tawanan ang mga bata.

“Yung mukha mo.”

“At anong problema mo naman sa mukha ko, ha?”

“Parang idinikit lang sa katawan.”

“Ano?” “Ang sexy na sana ng paa, kamay, at katawan tapos pagdating sa mukha, boom! Bakla pala,” hindi na magkandatuto ang mga bata sa katatawa at tila nababaliw na ang iba. “Asa ka pang maging si Barbie ngayon.”

Hindi pa man nahahabol ang hininga ay sinimulan na uli ni Vina ang pagtakbo. Mabigat ang bawat bagsak ng kanyang talampakan, bigat na nararamdaman niya rin sa nangingilid niyang

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luha. Makulimlim na ang kalangitan. Nakita niya si Ariel na dala-dala ang dalawang timbang puno ng tubig. Napansin siya nito. Sa una’y nangingilala ang mga mata nito ngunit mabilis ding napalitan ito ng pangungutya. Nakatakas ang bungisngis sa nakangiting labi ni Ariel. Sa saglit na sandaling nadaanan ni Vina ang taga-igib nila ay naramdaman niya ang matinding hiya sa sarili. Mula sa kaloob-looban umaagos ito patungo sa dulo ng kanyang mga ugat sa buong katawan. Mainit sa pakiramdam ang kahihiyan. Nagsimulang pumatak ang mga butil ng ambon.

Pagdating sa bahay ay gumawa siya ng bagong mukha. Kinuha niya ang gunting at karton, ginupit ang natitirang piraso, inabot ang pudpod nang crayola at nagkulay. Inalala niya ang itsura ng hawak na barbie ni Beauty; dilat na mga mata, matangos na ilong, mapupulang mga labi at dilaw na buhok. Minadali na niya ang pagkukulay kahit lagpas-lagpas na ito. Sinuot niya kaagad nang makulayan na ang lahat ng kailangang makulayan. Nagmamadali siyang tumakbo para lang makita ni Beauty at ng kanyang mga kalaro na pwede rin siyang maging si Barbie.

Bumubuhos na ang ulan. Mamasa-masa na ang kanyang bagong gawang mukha at katawan nang makarating siya sa bahay nila Beauty. Naabutan niyang pinapapasok na sila ng isang matandang lalaki sa loob; tinuturo kung saan sila dapat pumunta at sumusunod naman sina Beauty at ang mga kalaro niya. Nang makapasok na ang lahat sa loob ay sinarado na ng lalaki ang pinto.

Nakatitig sa kawalan si Vina. Hindi man lang niya naipakita ang gawa sa mga kaibigan. Nagsisimula nang bumaha sa kanilang kalye. Narinig niyang ibinaba ni Ariel ang dalawang timba sa tapat ng bukas nilang pintuan. Binabayo na ng hangin at ulan ang lugar nila, usap-usapan ng mga dumadaan sa tapat ng bahay ay may paparating daw na bagyo.

Unti-unting pumapasok ang baha sa bukana ng pinto, sa kanilang sala, sa kusina at sa paa ni Vina. Kinilabutan siya sa lamig ng baha.

Napayakap siya sa mga pinaghirapang binti. Tumulo ang mainit niyang luha at humalo sa kulay ng kanyang balat at dahan-dahang tinunaw ang kanyang mata, pisngi, ilong at mga labi. Gumapang ang mga luha

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Barbie

pababa at pumatak sa malamig na baha. Agad na natuyo ang mga natunaw na kulay. Napansin ni Vina ang ginawa ng kanyang pag-iyak, hindi niya napigilang humagulgol. Isa-isang tumulo ang mga tunaw na kulay at tumigas sa pagdampi nito sa baha hanggang sa naging isang munting isla na ng iba’t ibang matitingkad na kulay ang paligid ni Vina.

Napansin niya lang ito nang maisipang isara ang pinto para hindi na pumasok pa ang tubig sa bahay nila. Ang hagulgol ay naging pag-iyak at ang pag-iyak ay naging hikbi. Sinubukan niyang tumayo sa islang nakapatong sa tubig. Hindi ito lumubog. Tinulak niya ang sarili palapit sa pinto. Tinulungan siya ng baha na makarating sa pupuntahan.

Inabot niya ang dalawang malaking timba at ipinasok sa loob ng bahay. Kahit karton lang siya ay nakayanan niyang buhatin ang daladala. Natuwa si Vina nang maisip niya ito. ‘Di na bale kung tubuan uli ng masel, sigurado naman siyang magiging kasing ganda niya pa rin si Barbie kahit na anong mangyari tulad ng mga sinasabi ng kanyang mga kaibigang bakla. Inagos siya ng tubig papunta sa kanilang banyo.

Iniwan niya sa loob ang mga punong timba. Pinalutang niya uli ang munting islang kinatatayuan papalapit sa pinto at isinara ito.

Nang makadaan na ang bagyo sa barangay nina Vina ay dinala na rin nito ang baha na bumisita sa kanilang tahanan. Pag-uwi ng kanyang tatay ay tinawag niya ang pangalang Kevin, paulit-ulit. Walang sumasagot.

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PAMELA JUSTINE LITE

Parental Guidance after Sigmund Freud graphite on paper

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DIANA ROSE PARREÑO

Brine

graphite on paper

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MANUEL VILLA III

Lost in Taxi

23:44 “Time, sir. May I?” asked I, leaning in from the back seat.

“Hah?” came the taxi driver’s smoke-worn reply. “Yes,” I answered.

“Time does not stop,” he said. “No, now,” I said. “Bad weather, hah?” he remarked. I looked past him and tried to peer out of the windshield but the attempt was thwarted by what looked like a rainstorm of a magnitude I’d never seen. The rain battered upon the window so intensely it brought an equally dense spray of mist that obscured vision beyond the first couple of feet. Multiple dark blotches, which I assumed were other cars, were the only objects I could make out through the warping and swelling of the window. I moved my hand to reach for the power window button on the right hand side door, hoping to get a clearer view of the outside but then—“BAAAH!” The taxi driver let out a massive, pained cry, the type anyone would let out had their eyes been gouged and their gonads grilled. I stopped dead. He violently flailed in his seat, swinging his arms, damaging his taximeter with a nasty backhand, and rocking the entire vehicle along with his tantrum. I brought my hand back, cowering into the corner 74

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farthest from him. After a few seconds of shrieking, he, calming down, gestured to his droplet-ridden windshield. “Facking traffic!” “I can’t see anything.” “Exactly!” ~ 23:46 I pretended not to notice as the driver began muttering to himself as if he were having a heated yet whispered altercation with an unseen entity when a chilly draft blew in from behind me, messing up my do and raising the hairs on my neck and such. The taxi’s A/C might’ve been on too high. As I slicked back my hair, my hand brushed against a little ball caught in my crown. I dislodged it from copious amounts of lacquer still in the process of drying. There it was, in my hand. It must have been some sort of sign, it must’ve.

What else could it have meant? I fingered the minute object, holding it up to the light to check for hidden messages. I shook it a couple; the message must’ve been inside. Needless to say, I sniffed at and licked it too but that is a tale for another time. Five of my twenty one senses told me that it was a crumpled piece of paper. I pondered whether or not I should use the remaining sixteen to validate my hypothesis but I pried it open regardless, and flattened it upon the taxi window. In some mangled form of ancient Baybayin, the glyphs read:

Come me roadward, guiltbuilt, and bangily ‘saying forsooth and all that jazz—“Damned Are thee unbooned, quilty sleeper of darkage.”

Coldworld is now but what does it mean?

—El Diego

El Diego? He was my best friend. What was he doing, throwing around cryptic messages? I read and reread the words before giving up. “’What does it mean,’ indeed. I don’t know what forsooth means either.” I didn’t realize I was talking to myself. The 75

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taxi driver responded, “Indeed.” I gave him a questioning look via the rear view mirror. “Is that a ‘what does it mean, indeed?’ or an ‘it means indeed.’?” I asked. “Sorry,” he replied, shutting his flip phone. “What was that?” he asked. “Forsooth?” I repeated. “I only know how to drive,” He answered. “Not driving much now, huh?” I jested, referring to the unmoving mass of would-be-cars about. He opened his lips to speak: “Indeed.” ~ 23:49 Two more drafts blew in simultaneously, this time from either side. My hair caught several more crumpled papers, possibly similar to the one I’d read—I had faith enough not to check—all swept in by the chill wind. “Bad,” he said. “Storm?” I asked. “Which?” he asked.

“More?” I asked. “Indeed,” he chuckled.

It seemed to be getting even colder in here. I shoved both hands into my pockets for a bit of warmth. A bit better but not by much. I thought of unzipping my slacks and warming my hands on my crotch but decided not to, on the offhand chance that the driver turns around and looks at me. Talk about red-handed.

My right hand rested on my wallet, my left on my smart phone. I briefly took my phone out and checked for new messages.

Nothing but the empty lock screen bleeping the numbers 23:51 at me. “Time, sir?” I asked the taxi driver again, hoping to get more conversation out of him. “Late?” He asked, crusty eyes blaring at me through the rear view mirror. “Red light?” I asked. “Since the battle of El Diego,” he answered. “?!” I asked, verbally. In response, he turned up the radio, which had, since I entered the taxi, been mere unintelligible background noise. Now, it blared throughout the cramped taxi space with the clarity of surround sound.

“And in the blue corner,” came the lilting voice of a male announcer, “weighing in at a measley—wait just a minute here, can we verify this? It’s legitimate? You sure you’ve double checked? Well, ladies and gentlemen, the facts add up and YOU need to get a haircut, 76

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son!” To this, the crowd roared in agreement. “Aren’t you going to mention his name?” came the powerful voice of a female announcer.

“You kidding?” he sneered in reply. “Look at the man’s track record!

Zero wins, zero losses, zero draws. He’s got nothing to show! Why are you even here?” The crowd roared once more. “Oh, don’t be so hard on the poor boy,” said the female announcer, in a seductive tone.

“He’s a wild card. The only thing he’s capable of is surprising us.

And you know how much I favor the underdog,” she said, to which the crowd responded with a significantly weaker roar. “Well, honey,” responded the man, “you’re outclassed and outnumbered because all the way in the red cornerrrr,” and at this point, the crowd burst into raucous cheering. “Tall as your dreams and weighing in about as much as you’d ever need—with a record of ∞ wins and [bleep] losses—your One True Champion—EEEEELLLL DIEEEGOOOOO!”

The taxi driver, in a motion as sudden as his previous fit, violently rocked back and forth in his seat, screaming in absolute mirth, his seatbelt being the only thing restraining him from smashing his head into the windshield. I cowered once more, almost shutting my eyes. This particular outburst went on far longer, and after a minute or two of rowdy revelry, he eventually ran out of steam and cooled down. This day was certainly not my day.

I checked my phone once more to make sure I wasn’t having a dream. 23:54. “I’m going to be late,” I said, counting the seconds.

“Eight, nine, ten, and he’s dooown! What a match!” the announcer exclaimed, lungs bursting. The driver immediately switched the radio off, without another peep. ~ 23:54 For the first time, the inside of the taxi was silent. I waited, not sure what for. Not even the static-like noise of the rainstorm outside seemed to penetrate the vehicle. Not even the rumbling of the vehicle’s engine. “Ignition?” I asked. “Overheat,” he replied. The A/C was off too, thank god for that; I’d rather not have my lacquered do 77

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catch any more cryptic messages blown by the wind—dear God, what am I thinking? I have to make it to my appointment.

The door handle began to look so enticing. I remembered that I’d tried to bring the window down so I could see better through the heavy rain and mist but that experience ended badly; I was afraid of upsetting him again and having to face another one of his outbursts, but at this rate, I was going nowhere. Maybe I should just leave my fare and make a break for it. My fingers twitched, resisting the temptation to bring down the window. A bleep sounded from my pocket. I checked my phone. 23:56. 1 new message. Swipe, open.

“Don’t forget to bring a copy of your resume, your transcript of records, proof of employment (if applicable), 3 character references, a ball pen, a pencil with eraser, lunch money, your best attire, and your best foot.” Swipe, delete.

The driver’s manic voice tore like a bolt into the quiet. “It’s El Diego!” He began bouncing in his seat, drumming on the steering wheel in loud, alternating thumps. “Where? I don’t see anything,” I said, swinging my head around. “There! There there there!” He pointed at a dense patch of rainwater and mist straight ahead. And to my surprise, something did seem like it was making its way through the storm. A solitary smudge moved among the blotches of wouldbe-cars, becoming more defined in shape as it slowly inched closer, turning to nearby blotches as if peering inside. It would then turn back, resuming its sluggish pace down the road, repeating the same process for each blotch it passed by. I watched in awe as the figure repeated its actions on one, then two, then three, then four other blotches until it finally reached this taxi. Was this really El Diego?

What was he doing here?

The driver was still bouncing in his seat. I hoped to high heavens the figure would ignore us but it didn’t. The figure stopped right beside the left side view mirror and started banging its fists upon the window. The driver, who was now moaning in the purest of ecstasy, began to vibrate intensely like a piston. The hits grew louder by the second. “Open it or something!” I cried out. No response. Bang.

Bang. Bang. “El Diego! It’s me, your best friend!” Cracks formed on the window. My eyes darted around the taxi for an answer, anything to 78

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get me out of this predicament, anything!—and there it was. It wasn’t by far the best answer but it was the only thing left to do: I stretched my hand toward the knob of the door to my right, trembling in fear of the orgasmic driver and the would-be-El-Diego outside. It was now or never. ~ 23:59 How I wish this scene could’ve played out in slow motion.

I wish I could’ve described the initial click behind the door handle, the rubbery sound of the door seals peeling apart, the appearance of a thin, silvery sheet of light leaking into the taxi through the newly exposed gap, how the thin sheet expanded in area the same way a stage does when the grand drapes are pulled, how I’d momentarily slammed my head into the assist handle while urging my muscles to propel my body out of the car with all the energy I could muster, how the first drops of rainwater blessed my left hand as it thrust the door open. Though what had happened in actuality was as ungraceful a performance as any haphazard scene would play out.

I was halfway through opening the door when a powerful gust, bringing along with it a surge of crumpled paper notes, forced me back into the taxi, shutting the door and slamming the back of my head into the other door’s arm rest. Ring the curtain down. Fade to black. ~ 00:00

Instinctively, I check the time on my phone. Prepared to exit the house, I head for the door then pause, for some reason, my hand hovering over the door handle, in fear of some unknown consequence.

The rain batters hard upon the foyer’s windows. Mom groans in her sheets. I climb the stairs to her bedroom to tell her I was off. I head 79

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to my room. I study myself in the mirror. Disgraceful—but it’ll have to do. I decide to put on a necktie, fumbling through the tricky parts.

I dress in my best polo and slacks. I brush my teeth. I switch off the air conditioner, remembering that I’d forgotten to set the timer to sleep last night. I eat my breakfast. I cook my breakfast. Do I need a tie? I eject my body out of bed, hoping to get that little dose of adrenaline to shake the lethargy off. With a jolt, I wake from my bed to an unearthly tune. ~ 12:01 Beep—beep—beep.

I sigh in resignation. My body rocks back and forth to the erratic motions of the taxi. Seems like the driver’s every attempt to cut in front was opposed by equally frustrated motorists.

Was this even the right street? I hope the building doesn’t share names with ten other establishments scattered about the metro.

I fear having to explain to him that he’d brought me to the wrong part of the city. But I guess it doesn’t matter much how fast I get there now that I’m late.

For an instant, a beggar comes up to the taxi window. I bring my phone out to distract myself from having to shoo the child away.

Luckily, a green light sends the taxi zooming out of the bottlenecked intersection. I check the time once more—“We’re here,” the driver says, diverting my attention. Relief washes over me as we promptly drive up to the base of a skyscraper. I pay him the exact fee, which was a little more than I thought he deserved. I pull my aching body out of the taxi, and stretch my limbs. I yawn, then feel and a pang of hunger.

As the taxi drives off, I look up at the towering structure, hoping to extract some meaning out of its sun-stained windows. I take out my phone and scroll through my contacts. “Something came up. Sorry, dude. They’re all yours,” I typed. After a shrug and a sigh, I pocket my phone and walk away from the tower’s glass doors, in search of a cheap restaurant.

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CHELIZA ANGELA ACANCE

VERMIN!!! graphite on paper

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JERICHO MIGUEL AGUADO

Hignaw Sa harap ng mga humihiris nang bangka’y inabot ng bata ang huling bangkang papel sa bahang hindi pa rin humuhupa.

Lumulutang lang sila— hinihintay ang agos na tumangay sa mga lumang laruan ng batang hindi marunong lumangoy.

Habang lumulubog ang mga bangka, natatanaw sa tubig ang lawak ng langit.

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MIGUEL ANTONIO LUISTRO

Untitled 83

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ERRATA

N

ais iwasto ng Malate Literary Folio ang sumusunod na pagkakamali sa Tomo XXXI Bilang 1: Sina Patricia Rojas at Hanna Grace Villafuerte ay hindi naisali sa listahan ng mga kasapi.

Ibig naming humingi ng paumanhin sa mga naapektuhan ng nasabing pagkakamali.

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PASASALAMAT Nais pasalamatan ng Malate Literary Folio ang mga sumusunod—mga kaibigan, kapwa manunulat, at mga mangingibig ng sining.

Mr. Johann Vladimir Espiritu; Dr. Ernesto Carandang, II at ang Departamento ng Filipino; Dr. Dinah Roma-Sianturi at ang Department of Literature; Mr. Louie Jon Sanchez, Mr. Mark Anthony Cayanan, Mr. Adam David, Mr. Jay Javier, Mr. Red Ognita, Mr. Rai Cruz, Ms. Tessa Maria Guazon, at Mr. Mario Mendez, Jr.; ang UP-MOrg; Mr. Harris Guevarra, Mr. Leeroy New, Mr. Carlo Flordeliza, at Mr. Czar Kristoff Portin; ang Mellow Fellow, Autotelic, at ang Time Lock Bar; Ms. Ana Katrina Ocol, Ms. Christina Dy, Mr. Aris Bagtas, Mr. Iggy Rodriguez, Mr. Joey Alvero, Ms. MM Yu, Ms. Conchitina Cruz, Mr. Vincenz Serrano, Ms. Erika Carreon, at Ms. Susan Lara; ang Extrapolation; ang Transound Studio and Audio Hire; ang Cafe Alicia at ang Orchid Garden Suites Manila; ang Punto Miguel Beach Resort; Ang Pahayagang Plaridel, The Lasallian, Green & White, Green Giant FM, at ang Student Media Council; Dean Fritzie Ian PazDe Vera at ang Office of Student Leadership Involvement, Formation and Empowerment; Mrs. Ma. Manuela Agdeppa, Ms. Joanna Paula Queddeng, Mrs. Anna Loraine Balita-Centeno at ang Student Media Office; Mr. Mon Mojica, Mrs. Myrna Mojica, at ang MJC Press Corporation.

At higit sa lahat, sa mga kasapi’t kaibigan ng Malate Literary Folio, noon at ngayon.

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